


Coffee & Cigarettes

by sinnergy



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: (soon), 14 year age difference, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - 1960s, BAMF Ciel, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Boss/Employee Relationship, British Aristocrat Ciel, British Repression, ENTP/INTJ Relationship, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Existentialism, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, French Bohemian Sebastian, Idiots in Love, M/M, Modern Philosophy, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Philosophical Discussions, Recreational Drug Use, Relatively Equal Power Dynamics, Set in Paris, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage themes, ciel is 18, with fanart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26795809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnergy/pseuds/sinnergy
Summary: Paris, 1967.A free-spirited French bohemian meets a young, wealthy aristocrat.(An existentialist love story that can be read fandom-blind).
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 79
Kudos: 123





	1. Prologue

_December 15, 1967_

* * *

Sebastian,

I'm just going to leave this note. It looks like you need the sleep. Besides, I didn't want to give you the opportunity to say _another_ stupid thing.

I'm taking the drawing with me. You probably wanted to keep it, didn't you? I did consider leaving it with you, but I've become too intimately familiar with your lack of organizational skills. Rather than threatening you with death if anyone ever sees this, I'd rather just be safe and keep it myself.

I can't believe you talked me into this.

You told me once that it was the artist's challenge to reveal the essence beneath the surface. That the skin was the closest reflection of the soul. Do you remember? Do you think you succeeded? 

I like that thought.

Anyway. 

I'll call you if I can.

If not, wait for a letter.

Yours,

Ciel

* * *

Ciel's eyes darted from the drawing to his note and back again. He breathed in. Held his breath. Exhaled slowly.

Dawn crept through in the windows. The shadows of snowflakes twirled in the light. Sebastian murmured in his sleep, said something in slurred French that Ciel couldn't understand. The rush of the traffic outside was just barely audible.

A glance down at his watch. He had less than an hour until his flight. 

He slipped the drawing into his bag, he hoisted it over his shoulder, and carefully pushed his luggage into the hallway outside of the room.

One last glimpse back at the crumbled sheets, the peeks of skin beneath.

Ciel closed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciel drawn by the wonderful @peonacotton. She captured him so perfectly, sigh.


	2. Chapter 1: L'Ennui

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn't entirely surprised when he discovered that his thoughts turned to the boy he had seen on Saturday.
> 
> By itself, this wasn't an unusual occurrence. Attractive people often caught Sebastian's eye. Often, but never for very long. 
> 
> Not at all unusual.
> 
> Except that there was something else. Something that transcended the merely cognitive and thrummed in his body. Something beyond words. Something bone-deep and blood-steeped. 
> 
> He had been pinged, somehow. The crackle of a secret message had set up house in his ears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Amanitus for beta-reading <3

_May, 1967_

* * *

Boredom was a kind of death, too.

A silent fog that herded together all existing things beneath a peculiar indifference. It was a carving out of pleasure, a desecration of meaning, a hollowness; it was an _absence_ , like nothingness. Like death.

Perhaps more excruciating than that, though. The mind was still active, absurdly and tragically and _achingly_ aware of the absence of meaning. 

His room was warm and cozy. Sunlight dappled onto the bed and threw its bars along the wooden floor. Dust motes spiraled in the air. A piano stood crammed into one corner, a bookcase with a desk in the other.

He had opened all the windows, but the air was still sweltering on this first truly hot day of the year.

Sebastian looked down to the quiet street that stretched along the front of his apartment building. Only eight stories up, but the people looked miniscule from up here, scarcely more than flecks of color on the grey canvas of the asphalt. 

It was funny to think that each of them was magnificent in their own right, a unique copy of the most complex creatures that evolution had ever produced. Hundreds of thousands of words, memories, feelings, and ideas lay tucked away in the whorls of their minds. Each bore within them a universe of immense complexity. 

Every single one of them was a treasure chest of potential intrigue. 

Sebastian didn't feel like going down. 

He leaned back in his chair. Placed his feet on the desk. Stared up at the ceiling fan.

It was a Tuesday. 

* * *

It was Wednesday, and Sebastian was already craving another cigarette.

Already. It hadn't been long since he had watched the embers of the last one scatter on the ash-strewn ground just outside the _Café L'Esprit._ He'd been on a smoke break with the other waiters when Juliette rushed out to tell him, "Sebastian, the Madame wants to see you."

He waited in front of his manager's desk. The itch below his skin felt like the edge of a knife.

She blew out a gust of smoke. " _Incompetent_ , they said." She barked out a laugh. "Hah. One minute they praise you and the next they stab you in the back. I bet you they will replace me with one of their own, those wretched British bastards."

How much fake empathy would it take to sound believable? "That's horribly unjust."

And that was the truth, too. Madame Moreau had brought him on two years ago and somehow, he was _still_ her best hire. With any justice, she would never have been his manager to begin with.

"They may come to regret this decision very much," Sebastian continued. "You have been so generous." 

She snorted. "Half my staff has barely enough brains not to burn water, it's true. They asked me which of the staff I could do without, but honestly, other than you, Sebastian, I'd hardly miss--"

 _None of my concern, then_ , Sebastian thought, and tuned out the rest of the conversation. Distraction was all he could offer.

He left the office some ten minutes later, adjusting his tie.

The other staff members pounced on him and spoke all at once.

"What did she say?" and "Are the rumors true?" and "What is going to happen to the café?" 

Sebastian held up a hand to silence them. "I advise you not to concern yourself with rumors; undue worry is unlikely to influence the outcome."

He sunk back into the clatter of the café. Weaved through the tables, took orders, made small talk, doled out carefully timed smiles. 

But the need kept pulsing, deep below the surface. He threw a glance at his watch. It was too early for another smoke break. He had some sort of decorum to uphold, after all. 

And sometimes the need lent a welcome edge to the dull work.

Two coffees and a brioche at Table Five. The woman had a haunted look on her face. Her silver-lined collar was too tight. When Sebastian delivered the order, his eyes got caught on her tanned skin.

Sebastian lowered his head, looked into her eyes, and said, "One coffee macchiato with one single drop of milk, Madame."

 _Macchiato_ meant stained, or spotted. The pure black defiled by a single drop of milk. A cavernous dark womb and a single drop of seed.

She was looking.

They were always looking. Admiring or suspicious, but always detached and indifferent. Sometimes he'd catch a patron bury an elbow into their companion's side or heard the swell of the chatter simmer into hushed whispers when he came near. 

Sebastian couldn't fault them for it. He wasn't a person while he was here. He was an idea only: the perfect Parisian waiter, classically handsome and elusive like smoke. Just the right dose of surly. He might as well have been on the menu.

That would probably be more fun. 

This was easier, though. He didn't even have to think.

A sharp clatter rang through the café. Juliette had nearly dropped her tray. Sebastian placated the sour-faced customers and when he passed his colleague, he whispered a low, "Focus," into her ear.

The girl swallowed a choking sound against his shoulder.

Sebastian straightened his spine, turned around, rolled up one black sleeve, and checked his watch. 3:27. Only 33 minutes more of this. Another order, another slow sojourn around the café while he steered the tray along on his fingers, and then it was 20. Then 10, and the second the shorter hand reached the four, he made his way to the break room.

He peeled the gloves off of his hand. His black nail polish glinted in the dim light of the changing room; he flexed his hands once, and watched the slide of skin over his knuckles.

Next came the tailcoat. Then the buttons of his shirt. A little pull and his fly came undone. He stacked up his clothes, and shoved them into the back of his locker.

He pulled out a black turtleneck and black trousers from his canvas bag, traded his work shoes for black combat boots, and weaved a blood-red scarf around his neck. 

Outside, he ran into a group of employees, huddled together in a circle and locked in a tense discussion. When Sebastian passed them, one called out to him. "Hey, shit day, wasn't it? We're all going to an art gallery later. Do you want to join?"

"Ah," Sebastian said. He fumbled for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. "Next time perhaps, but I'm afraid I know little about art."

Which was the truth. He was just in a uniquely educated position to say so.

Around the corner, when he could no longer hear them, he slumped against the wall and took a deep drag.

* * *

Friday.

The sun hung up high in the sky and shone so bright that it laid a supernaturally bright filter over the haze of the city. It was almost noon. The center would be swarming with tourists, and they'd be lazy now, gorged on overpriced café food, enjoying the heat on their skins, happy and content like fat house cats.

But they could be roused by some diversion, perhaps.

After his shift at the café, Sebastian stopped by his apartment for his pencils and sketchbook and watched the hot asphalt flicker by beneath the wheels of his bike.

He stopped at a kiosk to buy more cigarettes, and stashed them away in his bag. He threaded back into the vein of the road that led him toward the center.

He had a preferred spot on the Champs-Elysees, closer to the Place de la Concorde, where the overhead canopy of leaves was thickest. The sunlight shifted through it and dappled on his blank canvas. Cars roared by. The scent of fresh-baked pastries hung in the air. A sly-faced man took up the spot next to Sebastian and peddled roses.

Sebastian lit up another cigarette, watched the tourists, and felt their excitement like a buzz in the air.

There were small groups of West Germans; Sebastian could tell by their rigid demeanor contrasted with their slovenly dress. Japanese tourists buzzed by in flag-touting swarms. It was easy to pick out the French tourists from other parts of the country, as well: these were the scowling tourists that tried too hard to look like they weren't tourists at all. All of them failed to hide their excitement at the grandeur of the avenue.

Sebastian had gotten good at sizing up people with only a glance, at identifying their idiosyncrasies and cataloguing them away.

And he had enjoyed this very much, once. Had felt the excited gleams in their eyes leap right at him and scuttle down his spine in a pleasurable thrill. He had delighted in their child-like wonder at this grand city, and he had taken it upon himself to show them a grand time. He had introduced them to the best croissants in the city, the finest and most affordable wineries. The jazz clubs in Montmartre or the Quartier Latin. Secret areas on their own bodies.

They spoke to him in a multitude of tongues, and moaned in even more of them.

But before any of that, he got to draw them, and that was maybe the best part of it. He could look at them, and their likeness would transmit from his eyes to his hands and create them on the page, something that was not his or solely theirs but a combination of them both. A replica of them filtered through his consciousness. 

Did they ever frame his pictures and hang them up? Was his work displayed on walls all over the world, in West Germany, Italy, Japan, the Soviet Union?

Or Sweden, perhaps. The home country of Sebastian's first customer of the day. _Agnes_ , she'd said, and that name was as Nordic as the rest of her. Restraint inhibited her from letting her eyes linger too long. 

Sebastian let his eyes wander down along her neck. 

And up into the girl's eyes, a matte grey like brittled stone. 

"Do you believe in fate?" he asked.

A quiver of delight to her smile, a shine in her eyes; Sebastian knew the answer before she even opened her mouth.

Of course she did, and surely everything happened for a reason, didn't it? She had a friend, see, some friend who fell in love with a man in a remote hotel at the Alsacian coast. A night of passion ensued, after which they hadn't been able to exchange contact information and saw no more of each other, until a star-crossed meeting many years later. 

In the same city, the same hotel. They were married now, the girl said with a dreamy sigh, and wasn't that incredible? Out of millions of people their paths had met not once, but twice. It was almost as if their stories had been stitched together during their first meeting and the second meeting had been an inevitability.

And that was probably the truth. But the reasoning was rubbish by itself, of course. A chance meeting such as this was statistically far more likely to occur again if all variables other than time were held constant.

Yet humans were sentimental creatures, weren't they? They loved the idea that every single thing that happened shifted the pieces of a grand universal puzzle and that, one day, piece by piece, it would all click into place. 

Sebastian didn't say any of that. He didn't talk about logical determinism or chaos theory or Lorenz graphs.

Instead, he talked about jazz. About the Beatles and berets and croissants and marijuana cigarettes. He talked about everything while saying nothing.

He could guess what he looked like to her eyes.

A romantic ideal, perhaps. The free-spirited artist with small private smiles and interested eyes. An accent that all foreigners uniformly seemed to believe was charming. Exotic, perhaps, with his black hair and pale skin. Something exciting and thrilling, but inherently foreign and strange. Something _other_.

There was nothing special about Agnes.

The curves of her face translated to the page in the same lines he'd drawn hundreds of times before. He used the same techniques, the same movements, the same process of pen against paper. 

The important question was: had Sebastian fucked a Swede before? 

He couldn't even really remember. He'd made a list, once, of all the nationalities he had bedded. He couldn't remember now where he kept that list. That one blonde from last fall, had she been Swedish or Norwegian?

Sebastian scrawled a cursive SM into the corner. His eyes followed the lines on the paper and then raised to her face. She was looking at him, rapt with attention.

A tentative smile played around her lips. On paper, he'd made them a little fuller. 

She tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ears and looked at him from beneath hooded eyes. "Would you… have coffee with me?" 

Sebastian looked at her, at her blond hair that shone brightly and poked at some memory.

He found himself torn between wanting to fuck her and wanting to reject her, and each possibility was equally as amusing.

He leaned back and regarded her with a small smile on his lips. His eyes flickered behind her head toward the rolling mass of the crowd.

_Fuck if I can spot a red shirt before a blue one. Reject if it's the opposite._

A woman walked by, laughing and spinning on her heel once. Sweat pearled on her forehead and darkened her shirt from baby blue to cerulean.

Sebastian shrugged. "Sorry," he said. "It's not meant to be." 

* * *

Sebastian ended up at a jazz bar that night.

Some time during the languid span of the afternoon, a thought had marched into his head, uninvited, and had started doing the neurological equivalent of standing in the middle of a bar screaming.

There were several ways in which Sebastian could shut it up. Hedonism was by far the easiest choice.

The bar was so smoky that his eyes stung and he could taste the char at the back of his throat before he even lit his own cigarette. He felt someone's eyes on him. Hard. Insistent.

Sebastian smiled and raised an eyebrow at the man. Then looked away again.

He felt the heat of the man's eyes across the pulsing thrum of the jazz music.

Sebastian knew how these things went. All he had to do was wait.

He didn't have to wait long. The man sauntered over to him. Slid onto the stool next to Sebastian. Bought him another drink and introduced himself as something starting with an _A,_ Adrien maybe, or Alain, and bought him another drink. 

Sebastian looked him over. Mid-forties, shaggy brown hair.

A tan line on his ring finger. Hmm.

He couldn't think of a good enough reason to say no. He felt heavy. Warm.

Cold only when his back connected with the wall, outside the club somewhere, in an alley that smelled of piss. There was a messy, undignified, entirely graceless fumble. The man tore at the front of Sebastian's trousers with all the grace of a frenzied chimpanzee. He tasted of cigarettes and sugar. 

Then the man's hand reached down, lower, lower, gripped him, and _oh_. 

Sebastian didn't remember much after that, only disjointed flashes of impressions: a sharp pleasure in his groin as he felt himself getting tugged, a hot pulse in his own tight grip. The rush of adrenaline. Fast, fast, it had to be fast, because someone might see, someone might just walk by, and that, somehow, lent an edge to it, a thrill that made Sebastian spill onto the stranger's jacket with a cut-off, repressed moan.

When they both zipped up their trousers again, he still did not remember the stranger's name, and had even less of a reason to care.

A few steps into the night air and a sudden tilt of the ground reminded him of the _cocktails_ , though. And shit, how many had it been? Five. Seven? Ten?

Too many.

Sebastian lit a cigarette and walked through the crowd back on the main street. Street lamps bathed the cobblestones in their bleary light. People ignored him as they rustled past in their trench coats and blue jeans and multicolored scarves.

He found a phone booth at the end of the road, and dialed one of only two numbers he knew by heart.

Agni picked up on the second ring, voice sleep-choked. "... Hullo?"

"Agni," Sebastian said. He steadied himself against the apparatus. Damn, that phone booth was wavering, too. Everything was immaterial. Was he in a dream? "Agni."

Rustles on the other end of the line. Agni's voice rose in concern. "Sebastian. Hold on a second, I was just -- wait a minute, are you drunk?"

There wasn't much point in downplaying it, was there? "Most definitely."

"My God," Agni said. "Do you have any idea what time it is? Where are you?"

"In a phone booth," Sebastian said. "In the Quartier Latin. Huh? Which street? Hold on. It says..."

Something moved in Sebastian's peripheral vision. He looked up at the moon through the window of the booth.

Agni was saying something else. 

Sebastian didn't understand a word.

A spiral vortex wound itself around the room. It began to spin, spin, and spin in brilliantly white lines against the black of the sky. The pale egg of the moon sat at its center. Then the vortex picked up speed, twirled faster as if trying to suck him in, and --

" -- bastian," Agni said. "Hey. I said, 'where the fuck are you'?"

Sebastian blinked. 

_Focus. This isn't real._

"Nevermind," he said. "Sorry for calling you. You don't have to come pick me up or anything. Don't worry. Talk to you soon. Ish."

He hung up. He started walking. 

That had probably been a bad thing to do. Rather graceless, really. To worry Agni only to hang up on him.

But it was easy to get lost in the walk. The rhythm of his feet slapping against the ground settled in his ear like a heartbeat.

At some point, the ground became more solid. The fuzziness around him ground away to sharp clarity. 

He fell into a heavy sleep that night.

* * *

He woke with a headache thrumming in his skull.

It was Saturday. Sebastian picked up his package of cigarettes on the table. It crumbled too easily in his grip. Empty already.

But Saturday meant that he would meet up with his friends, so he grabbed his bag, then his bike, and pounded down the sun-kissed streets to _Le Café Noir_.

Mireille sneered at him as he entered the café. 

Sebastian found his friends on the terrace, and sat down to join them.

Some amount of time later, Brigitte turned to him, looked him up and down and told him, "You look like your heart has given out."

Sebastian blinked. He'd been absent for a while, lost in thought while his friends talked and smoked. He blinked at the cocktails strewn around the table in front of him. The heat and moisture of the coming summer weighed down the air.

Sebastian flashed her an easy smile. "Nothing has given out, except perhaps my patience with the current topic." He threw a look around the little group, from Brigitte to Jacques to Irène, and said, "'The truth is that everyone is bored. All anyone does it devote themselves to cultivating habits.'"

He gave them all a challenging smile. Who would recognize the quote first?

It was Irène, of course, who liked to remind everyone that she held a degree in philosophy from _La Sorbonne_ . But she took her time taking a sip from her cocktail. Swallowed. "Albert Camus, _La Peste._ "

"That is but the most obvious facet to boredom," Brigitte said. Her rust-colored curls bounced with the shake of her head. "Boredom is the status quo for the few privileged enough to feel it."

Sebastian gave her an easy smile. "Privileged, yes. No war, no famine, no threat to my life --"

"No war?" Irène interrupted him sharply.

"Well. No war _here_. Your concern about the war in terms of geopolitics is valid, but Brigitte pointed out my personal privilege, which, thankfully, remains untainted by what's going on in Indochina. Yes, she's right, privileged is what I am. No immediate concerns of survival distract me from the abyss of ennui. I am fully aware and conscious. No hunger or pain or emergency may distract me from this nothingness."

"You're being quite dramatic today," said Irène. "And you are wrong. It is not nothing, but a fertile void. Tell me, if you weren't bored on occasion, would you be doing anything at all?"

Sebastian took a deep drag from his cigarette. "Fertile voids sound rather tempting."

Irène rolled her eyes. "As always, you're disgusting."

Jacques took a long drag on his cigarette. "You know, some of the faithful say that God created the world out of boredom." He blew out the smoke in rivulets. "And Adam created Eve to ease his own boredom. Then they gave birth to ever more humans, who lived and warred and fucked, and were still bored. So they built a tower, they wrote laws and scriptures, and societies and civilizations, and on and on it went, the mantle of boredom being passed around from one generation to the next."

"An endless game of slipping each other the losing card?" Sebastian said. "That is dark, even for you."

"Perhaps you just need a hobby," Brigitte said. Her eyes were kind and soulful.

Sebastian thought he might have felt something.

Then he realized: no, he simply had a headache.

No more cocktails for a week.

He closed his eyes in pain. Groaned a little, and opened them again.

Something from his peripheral vision attracted his attention. He shifted his eyes over to a table behind his friends, and blinked.

Not something. _Someone_.

Behind the curls of Jacques' black hair, a few tables away, sat a boy.

The first thing that Sebasitan noticed about him was that he looked like he didn't belong here. 

Too proper. Too prim. Clad not in the dark uniform of the bohemian intelligentsia, but a fine, stone-colored brocade shirt with a crumpled collar. 

The second thing that Sebastian noticed was that he was beautiful. It was such an obvious, centerstage, entirely arresting truth that Sebastian had no idea how he hadn't noticed that first. 

Large blue eyes. Cheeks full with youth. Pale skin. A rosy tint just beneath the surface of it, like a drop of blood rubbed into white silk and spread across the entire arc of his features. Streaks of grey ran through his dark hair, and the startling contrast only made him more beautiful.

The third, and most interesting thing was not something Sebastian saw so much as something he felt, curiously enough.

Palpable apathy.

One arm rested across the table in front of the boy, the other supported his head. He was staring into nothingness. His eyes toggled between the same two invisible spots in the air, again and again.

Completely lost in thought, yet seemingly unconcerned with whatever it was he was thinking about. Like he was trapped in a mind castle that had turned out to be horribly, horribly dull.

He didn't even notice Sebastian looking at him. 

Sebastian felt something stir inside him that he couldn't place. 

_Hmmm_.

"Earth to Sebastian," he heard someone say. "Hey. What are you staring at? We're waiting on your input. So, what do you think?"

Sebastian shook his head. "Sorry. I missed the question. What are we talking about?"

Brigitte gave him one of her deep looks. "If you could be truly, truly happy for a little while, even if you knew it would be taken from you and end in sadness. Would you take the chance?"

They were on a completely different topic already.

He said the first things that came to mind. He had no idea if he believed it. "I'm not sure that that's the right question." Sebastian gave a languid shrug. "Happiness is overrated. There is only one way to be happy, and so very many different ones to be miserable."

The chair screeched along the ground when he got to his feet. "Anyway. I have to go. See you around."

* * *

It had started to rain in the afternoon. When Agni stormed into Sebastian's apartment later that day, he brought the smell of it with him.

"What the fuck?" Agni prompted him.

Sebastian set aside his pencil. "I'm really sorry."

"No, seriously, what the fuck? How many times now?"

There was no way that trying to answer that question would end well for Sebastian.

He sighed. "Tell you what, I'll whip us up some food. Something sweet?"

The displeasure stayed firm on Agni's face.

"Ah." Sebastian gave his friend a tentative smile. "Then how about something hearty and savory? Some gougère, perhaps? I still have some cheese in the kitchen. Emmentaler. I know you like that."

Some of the anger drained out of Agni's face. A glint of interest shone in his eyes.

Sebastian widened his smile into one of his most coaxing.

Agni gave him a hard look. "Do you think you can bribe me with food?" 

Sebastian kept his smile in place. "My cooking is world class, as you know."

"You really do think you can, huh?" 

"I was hoping that you would forgive me." 

Agni sighed. "People used to tell me, 'Agni, only God and you know why the hell you care about Sebastian.' Now, God only knows."

"Ouch." Sebastian closed his sketchbook, and walked over to the man glowering at him in the middle of his apartment. "You don't mean that."

Agni's lips thinned into a line.

Oh. He really was angry today, wasn't he?

"You're lucky you're interesting." The man sighed. "Fine. What were you even doing, this time?"

"Oh, you know," Sebastian said. "I was enjoying the sweet bohemian life, and then things just got a little... out of hand."

Agni gave him a _look_. "You worry me a lot, you know that?"

Oh no. Not that again.

"Oh," Sebastian said. "Would you go fetch some eggs for me? The market down at the corner should still be open. Discount eggs, only two francs. I'll make it worth your while, I promise."

* * *

Sunday. Angry grey skeys swept along a grey sky. The howling downpour calmed into a monochromatic drizzle. _Drip drip drip_ on along the pipes outside the house.

So slow and steady that it made Sebastian want to go to sleep.

But his mind was buzzing. 

He was out of cigarettes again. Again. He'd already bought three packs of Gauloises this week, so he was back to rolling them himself. He crunched the tobacco between the paper and gave it a long lick from the filter to the tip to seal it shut.

He lit it, shifted on the chair until he was comfortable, and turned on the television.

The news. The war, of course. Reconnaissance photography from 80,000 feet of missiles in North Vietnam. _Click_.

An interview with Serge Gainsbourg. Cigarette smoke wafted up around him. He had the air of the eternally tortured around him. _Click_.

Gossip news. Elvis Presley got married. Another one lost to the farce of matrimony. Whatever. _Click_.

Catholic mass. A preacher was holding a sermon. He looked like one of those people who refused to masturbate while thinking about it nearly all the time. Pfft.

A click, a spit of static, and the screen went black.

Sebastian sighed, placed the back of his hand against his forehead and stared at the ceiling. Let his mind wander. 

He wasn't entirely surprised when he discovered that his thoughts turned to the boy he had seen on Saturday.

By itself, this wasn't an unusual occurrence. Attractive people often caught Sebastian's eye. Often, but never for very long. 

Not at all unusual.

Except that there was something else. Something that transcended the merely cognitive and thrummed in his body. Something beyond words. Something bone-deep and blood-steeped. 

He had been _pinged_ , somehow. The crackle of a secret message had set up house in his ears. 

He could be thinking about a million other things, ideas and people, and he was thinking about a boy who hadn't even _looked_ at him.

A boy who had been entirely, willfully, arrogantly oblivious to him.

A boy to whom he did not even exist yet. 

Hmm.

* * *

The week rolled out on a bright and clear Monday.

After his work shift, Sebastian found himself going back to _Le Café Noir_. He never met with Brigitte, Irène and Jacques on Mondays. 

Sebastian had brought a notebook, just in case. If the boy wasn't there, Sebastian would jot down some of his thoughts.

But he was there.

On a different seat this time, one of the outside ones, out in the sunlight. All dressed in dull greys today; only his sapphire ring reflected the light. He had his face turned away from it, and a shadow cast over his contemplative little face. He had a stiffness in his shoulders, a rigidity to his spine. His lips turned downward at the corners.

But oh, such a beautiful face.

How old was this boy?

Despite the grey in his hair, he had to be young.

His limbs looked fully-grown, and his hands would not have looked out of place on someone bigger than him. But he was small. The youth still clung to his face, in the curve of his cheeks. The trim little body.

Oh yes. Very young, indeed.

Which was good, because Sebastian liked them young. 

Yet there were pesky practical matters to consider, so... _just how old are you, little one_?

Past his fifteenth birthday, surely. But not yet twenty. Almost certainly a student at one of the universities. But why was he here, then, and not in the library? 

The boy was a foreigner; that, too, was evident. The boy held stilted conversations with Mireille or one of the other waitresses whenever they sauntered over to refill his tea or bring him pieces of cake.

He spoke French well, but with an accent. Choppy syllables that didn't quite flow together right. Too much aspiration in his voice. The r's too high in his mouth.

British, then.

Which explained the stiffness, Sebastian supposed.

And the boy was an introvert. Surely. In the Jungian sense of the word: one whose own subject is the prime motivating factor. One whose world was a carefully tended and walled-in garden.

The boy spent most of the day studying while Sebastian sat a few seats away from him and drank one cup of coffee after the other.

The boy never once looked at him, and left at 17:00 on the dot.

* * *

When Sebastian walked into the café the next day, the boy was there again.

Mireille's eyes narrowed at him. "The usual?"

Did he have 'a usual' now? It had only been a few days of coming here regularly. "Hmm. Yes. Black coffee, again." He nodded at his notebook. "Hard at work."

She raised an eyebrow at him, and Sebastian knew she didn't believe a word.

Too bad. She had liked him once.

The boy was in yet another seat, today, at the very back of the café, next to the wall. He was focused again, writing in a notebook, consulting the opened book on the table every couple of minutes. His eyes scanned his notes. 

This time, Sebastian dared to sit a little closer to him.

Close enough to see individual strands of his hair the hair that fell down feather-soft across his forehead. He could almost count the grey ones.

The boy had _still_ never looked at him, and Sebastian wondered.

What was this boy doing here, day after day? Why was he here, reading and drinking tea and eating sweets and studying and staring into the middle space? 

What scenes played out in his walled-off garden?

When the boy left his table and headed off into the direction of the restroom, Sebastian approached the table.

An empty cup of tea. Opened cookie wrappers sat in a small pile to its left.

Sebastian finally got close enough to read the title of the thick, dog-eared tome.

 _A History of Western Philosophy_ by Bertrand Russell.

A classic. Sebastian had read it many years ago, his first year at university. A long time ago, now.

By the time the boy returned, Sebastian was already back at his seat.

He looked at his notebook. But Sebastian could still see him from the corner of his eyes.

The boy came to a halt in front of his table.

Sebastian glanced over, and their eyes met for the first time.

Sebastian's breath caught at the back of his throat.

He had wondered what it would be like, to be the focal point of those eyes.

No amount of pondering could have prepared him for it.

The boy's eyes were sharp. Pinned Sebastian to his seat. Seized him up and down with one quick roll, from his boots over the length of his body all the way up to his eyes.

But the boy said nothing. 

Only slid back into his seat, and opened up the thick book, and flipped to the third quarter of it, and he was already reading again.

The boy's eyes moved from left to right along the page and back again in a fluent staccato. Sweat pearled on his forehead. He wiped at it. His lips dropped into a sigh.

Sebastian no longer knew what day it was.

* * *

Today was a Wednesday. 

Agni came over with a bag of take-out Indian and his usual mellow smile on his face.

Which meant that Sebastian had been forgiven, probably. Something in his chest softened, smoothed down, and finally moved, as if he'd had a large box of ice lodged in there had only now melted down enough to drip out.

They talked little as they ate. The curry was well-seasoned, adequately spiced, and nowhere near as good as what Agni could have made. After, they played a round of cards, and Sebastian lost himself in the dribble of their conversation. 

They talked about how Agni was doing. How he was going to be leading a workshop on Tantra in Nantes. He'd be leaving in September. Stay there for a few months. Which was great, apparently, because it put him closer to Laura, one of his three lovers. 

She still had to liberate herself from some earthly attachments, Agni said. Sebastian could only guess that Agni meant she was jealous. He'd never liked to use that word.

"Tell me, my friend," Agni asked at some point, with just a hint of something serious on his face. "Other than getting too drunk to remember where you are, what have you been up to?"

Sebastian kept his face still. "Same as always, mostly." 

And that was true. _Mostly_ , as in what had chiefly occupied his time, he had done the same things that he would have any other week. He had gone to work. Had done some sketches. Read books. Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Iris Murdoch, William Faulkner. Had written exactly ten pages on his latest essay on determinism.

He'd done all that, but that wasn't the full truth of it. 

Agnis raised one skeptical eyebrow. "Really?"

Sebastian sighed. "I'll admit it. Something has caught my eye."

Agni laid down an ace. "Oh dear."

After another half an hour, the cards started to swim in front of Sebastian's eyes.

"I yield." Sebastian slapped the cards down onto the table, braced his arms against the table, and buried his face in between them. 

He felt a gentle hand in his hair. Then a sharp prick at his scalp. " _Ah_ \--"

He whipped up at his head.

Agni held something up between his fingers. "I found a silver lining," he said, and the light ran across the length of a single grey hair.

Fuck. He was only thirty-two.

"Your good mood in the face of the evidence of my mortality warms my heart."

"Time stops for no one," Agni said, and somehow managed to deliver this truth with absolute kindness. "Wear the silver as a badge of honor. Against all expectations, you're still alive and breathing. There were certainly times when we were younger when I would've felt very fortunate to know that I would one day get to pluck a silver hair off of your head."

Sebastian said nothing. And paid up his debt, because no matter how much Agni liked to go on about the purity of poverty, he was never above collecting his gambling debts.

"I'm going to be close to home when I go to Nantes," Agni said by the door. He raised his eyebrows at Sebastian. 

A question.  
  
"There's nothing I want you to say to her," Sebastian said.

He waited until he heard the click of the door, and collapsed on his bed. 

He placed one hand below the back of his head and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. He reached for a cigarette and lit it up. One of his feet bounced up and down nervously.

Sebastian sighed. He was in a caffeine spiral, wasn't he? 

Well, he was used to those. There was only one end to them: total exhaustion and an endless pit of black sleep. Soon. He'd have a little less coffee tomorrow. 

The coffee. The café. This was the crux of the problem: he usually had only about four cups a day. That had easily gone up to six or more ever since he'd started going to the café this often.

The smoke drifted up, gyrated into spirals of its own, and collapsed in on itself.

His thoughts returned back to the boy, and narrowed down one by one until only one of them remained.

It was time to make a move.

He could sit here and stew and try to find out just why exactly he was so strangely interested in a random teenager, but once he talked to him, this would all go away.

People were never as interesting up close as they were from a distance.

They were no different from any of the other challenges he'd pursued in his life.

As soon as he had this boy figured out, this interest would fade.

A new thought came to him, one he had never entertained before: _isn't that a good reason to leave it be?_

Perhaps he'd be better off never speaking to this boy. To steer clear of him, to remember him only as a 'what could have been.' He would be pristine in his mind forever this way. He would remain a mystery that was never solved.

The boy would never become mundane. He'd stay in this mind garden of his forever, and Sebastian would remember only the glimpses he'd caught through the hedge.

He finished up his cigarette, set the ashtray aside, and thought, _but who am I kidding? Like there's anything that could stop me._

He'd almost forgotten: free will did not exist. It was a comforting lie people told themselves. They thought they were making choices because they _felt_ like they were. Yet everything that happened in the universe was the direct result of something that came before. Human actions were a part of a deterministic universe.

There was no way he wouldn't talk to this boy.

There was only one way in which this could possibly end.

He fell into a restless sleep at dawn.

* * *

The caffeine still pulsed in his bloodstream when he woke up at the blare of his alarm clock a few hours later.

Sebastian raced to work beneath crumbled grey clouds.

It was Madame Moreau's last day, and anxiety had pulsed in the air. Fifteen glasses broke. Sebastian had to stay late to help clean it up and tried not to snap at any of these idiots.

When he walked into the _Café Noir_ after work, Sebastian barely glanced at the boy and chose a seat five tables away from him.

He wasn't going to look so much, Sebastian resolved. He'd looked quite enough to know he was interested. Today, he was going to consider his course of action.

Perhaps he could also stage a run-in when the boy left? Watch for signs that he was packing up, go outside, rush in at the exact time the boy went out?

No. People bumped into each other like this in movies all the time, but in real life, there were probably better ways to get people's attention than by giving them bruises.

Perhaps the direct approach would work best. Casually pass by, ask him what he was reading. The boy had already looked at him once. To hang him for too long without making his move would be suspicious.

It was best to do it soon. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe even --

"Hey, you," a voice said. In English, the words firm and sharp.

Sebastian's eyes swerved from the table in front of him to the side and down to dark brown Oxfords. Their polish gleamed.

Sebastian raised his eyes over black trousers and a fitted bone-colored shirt up to guarded blue eyes.

They were full-on staring at him.

" _Toi_ ." The word boomed out of him. " _Est-ce qu'il y a quelque chose tu veux me dire? Si oui, je préfère que tu me le dises maintenant au lieu de gaspier mon temps._ "

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Ciel says at the end translates to, "You. Is there something you want to say to me? If so, I prefer you get on with it rather than waste my time." Many thanks to ChromeHoplite for the translation!
> 
> So yeah. This is it. My longfic baby. The idea first came to me back in April or so, but it took me until now to fully plan out the story and draft up the first half a dozen chapters and begin posting. But it's been eating my soul for all these months now, and I'm incredibly excited to finally push it out in the open.
> 
> I made an [upload schedule](https://sinnergism.tumblr.com/post/628773355717312512/pinned-post-with-the-projected-release-dates-of) for this story. As you can see, I've already committed to the dates for the rest of the year. Any delays will be announced in this post.
> 
> This fic also has [its own tag on my Tumblr.](https://sinnergism.tumblr.com/tagged/coffee-&-cigarettes) There you can find excerpts for future chapters, headcanons, and other trivia. Feel free to send me asks about this story. I'd actually be stupidly happy about it.
> 
> Anywho. 
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who's read this far. I hope you're on board for chapter 2 in 2 weeks' time. Drop me your thoughts, if you are so inclined.
> 
> Next up: Ciel and Sebastian share their first conversation. It ends in a different emotional place than expected.


	3. Chapter 2: La phénoménologie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boy tilted his head and stared down at Sebastian from above. "I hear that you've been staring at me."
> 
> Shit. _Who?_
> 
> Sebastian pointed at his notebook. "I've been writing, as you can see."
> 
> "Barely."
> 
> "Oh," Sebastian said, and allowed his lips to rise into a smile. "You seem rather sure of that. Have you been looking at me? Accusing someone else of that which you are yourself guilty sure is a rather common deflection strategy. Carl Jung calls it projection, have you heard?"
> 
> "Don't be ridiculous." The boy spat out the words. "It looks new and you're on page _five_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lovingly beta'd by Amanitus.

Sebastian blinked at the boy.

Outmaneuvered. Preempted. Certainly a novelty. The first move had been taken away from him; now it was up to Sebastian to scramble for the best possible next one.

Time. He needed more time.

Sebastian reclined in his chair, took a drag on his cigarette, and released the smoke in a gust.

The boy raised a questioning eyebrow above his unwavering glare.

Such fascinating eyes. Deep and sharp, his gaze like a drill spinning against hardened soil. Not satisfied with whatever they saw on the surface. He would not stop probing until he found the filth.

Sebastian would never give the boy that satisfaction.

Sebastian chose to reply in English. "Forgive my ignorance, but I believe that 'hey, you' is not very polite. Is it?" 

The boy's eyes narrowed, but didn't lose their focus. 

Sebastian felt as if he could feel them on his skin.

The boy tilted his head and stared down at Sebastian from above. "I hear that you've been staring at me."

Shit. _Who_?

Sebastian pointed at his notebook. "I've been writing, as you can see."

"Barely."

"Oh," Sebastian said, and allowed his lips to rise into a smile. "You seem rather sure of that. Have _you_ been looking at _me_? Accusing someone else of that which you are yourself guilty sure is a rather common deflection strategy. Carl Jung calls it projection, have you heard?"

"Don't be _ridiculous_." The boy spat out the words. "It looks new and you're on page _five_."

Sebastian sighed and closed his eyes. Opened them again, and mentally went through his array of smiles, selecting one that was suitably disarming. "I see. I stand accused, then. You'd make a fine lawyer. Care to take a seat, so we may discuss this accusation in more detail? No judgement without a fair trial, isn't it?" He widened his smile just a little, and allowed it to reach his eyes. "Article 10 of the Declaration of Human Rights, I believe?"

The boy huffed. Hedged. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Visibly wavered in between sitting down and throwing Sebastian's coffee right at his face.

Sebastian felt something in his chest move.

Determination hardened on the boy's face. He slid into the seat at the opposite end of Sebastian's table, crossed both his arms and legs and tilted up his chin to fix Sebastian with a cold look, and at some point throughout all of this, Sebastian recognized the something as nothing other than a _thrill_.

Sebastian exhaled deeply. He reclined in his chair, slid down along the seat, fanned out his legs. The fingers that had been squeezing his cigarette a little too tightly slackened.

The boy said nothing. But his eyes were large, impossibly blue. There was a glint in them. Suspicion.

"What will you have?" Sebastian asked with a wave at the menu. "It's on me."

The boy made a sound that was almost a snort. "No, thank you. Believe me, that won't be necessary."

Sebastian eyed the fine material of his sweater. "Understood. I, on the other hand, will have some more coffee."

His eyes found Mireille's, and he gave her a signal.

He got a sour look in reply. She tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. Her eyes slid over to the boy sitting opposite Sebastian, a frown creased her forehead, she turned on her heel, and Sebastian understood.

_Bitch. It was you, wasn't it?_

His eyes slid back to the boy in front of him.

The boy had his defenses up high. Sebastian could tell from one glance. Shoulders stiff, fingers half-curled into what would be a fist with just the smallest twitch, unreadable expression on his face. 

But he had sat down, and this was his chance.

"So," said Sebastian. "Do you like philosophy?"

"You're not helping your case with that question."

"Ah," Sebastian said. "I was merely hoping to move beyond the unpleasantness of the accusations to something a little more enjoyable." He tried to take another drag from his cigarette, but damn; it had burned down to the filter already. He ground it out on the ashtray. "But then, I guess you aren't exactly the living embodiment of _joie de vivre_."

One of the boy's eyebrows shook. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Sebastian shrugged easily. "Don't misunderstand. I don't judge at all. Mindless happiness, one could argue, is a rational choice if all is one seeks a life of bliss. It's out of reach for most of us. To be conscious of one's own existence, and to contemplate its…" -- Sebastian struggled to remember the English pronunciation and settled on pronouncing it the French way -- " _composition_ , so to speak, is the privilege and burden of only the human mind." He paused, and flashed the boy a quick smile. "What's your name?"

The boy blinked at the sudden change of topic.

Sebastian was grateful that the question for one's name was such a well-oiled habit that it was hard not to naturally respond to it.

This boy was no exception. "My name is --" He shut his mouth. Considered. "Just 'Ciel' will do."

"Pfft." The laughter burst out of Sebastian. " _Pour de vrai?_ _Comme le ciel_?" 

The boy with the absurd name gave him a cold look. "Yes. Exactly like that. Spare me the jokes. I've heard them all before."

"You're serious." Well, that was amusing. "Are your parents hippies?"

The boy's lips curdled. "Certainly not."

Well. That had been the wrong thing to say.

The space between them stretched out vast and wide, humming with more hidden mines than Sebastian had anticipated. The boy was only moments away from jumping to his feet; the trapped energy jittered in his shoulders. Any moment now, the boy would get up and swish by in a tight shell of apathy, and he'd disappear back to that table in the back, away from Sebastian, and that would be _it_ , and shit. 

What could he do? A joke would not go over well now. Neither would hypocritical attempts at sympathy or hasty parallels to try to force a connection. Another question might be the final push to end the conversation. The boy was about to leave. Sebastian knew it.

 _Quick_ \--

"The interesting thing about unusual names is that they lend such different effects to different bearers," Sebastian said. "They make the beautiful more beautiful, and the ugly more ugly. The gifted more admirable, the inept more foolish. Unusual names are amplifiers. Have you ever thought about that?"

"...Hmm." The boy -- Ciel, Sebastian reminded himself, and well, that would take some time getting used to -- stared at him. "That appears to be true enough."

And he remained seated. And the tension drained out of his shoulders. Subtly.

It was good enough. The moment was a tunnel, and they were right back in the middle of it.

Sebastian allowed himself a languid look at the boy. 

The stiff, pretty little thing. His voice was deeper than he'd imagined, gravelly with the rasp of adulthood. Young bright eyes stared at him, the brilliant whites a wide canvas. An expanse of potential. The irises shone at him in a shock of blue. The boy was a fresh painting, barely finished, caught in the moment just after the artist had finished the last stroke and before they scribbled their initials in the corner. Liquid colors so vivid they were like a scream in Sebastian's mind.

The boy closed his eyes with a tired sigh. "And what's your name, anyway?"

Sebastian took a few sweet seconds to drag out his answer. "Well, as per your advice to refrain from all jokes... I won't claim it's 'Heaven.'"

"How _witty_." The boy's voice dripped condescension.

Sebastian kept smiling. "Ah. Heaven's not my place anyway, believe me. I feel rather more at home in the soil of the earth. Hmm. 'Earth.' Perhaps that should be my name?"

The boy's blink was as slow and careful as a cat's. "If I were you, I'd pick a name I could at least pronounce properly."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. " _Tu préfères que l'on parle le français, d'abords? Mais attention, celui qui communique dans une langue secondaire est toujours en position moins favorable..._ "

Irritation twitched over the boy's face. Then settled. "...That's all right. We stick to English." He gave Sebastian another cool once-over. "Well?"

"My name is Sebastian." 

"Sebastian," Ciel repeated, and pronounced it the English way. 

Sebastian shrugged. " _Eh bien_. That will do." 

A flash at Sebastian's peripheral vision, and Mireille approached the table with his coffee. She deposited it on the table and ignored Sebastian's eyes.

Sebastian hooked one finger into the cup's curved handle. He breathed over the dark surface and watched the white ripples. "How old are you?" Lowly.

"Are we playing a question game now?" The boy met his eyes. "Eighteen."

Oh, _such_ a baby.

A quick glance down the front of Sebastian's black shirt. "And you, I guess?"

Sebastian hummed. "Hmm. A question game. We _could_ do that, I suppose. But in that case, I'm still waiting on an answer."

"If I like philosophy?" The boy let the question hang in the air before he captured it with a swift, "Yes."

"What interests you about it, in particular?"

Ciel considered his answer. "Modern French Philosophy."

Sebastian gave him a thin smile. "Ah, of course."

Another ripple of irritation cracked the boy's mask of apathy. 

"Ah." Sebastian smiled soothingly. "Don't misunderstand. I'm just not surprised. This city attracts the disgruntled, the rebellious, the searching and wandering… It attracts anyone who has ever felt alienated. They come here to drink, to dance, to write, to read, to expand their minds in asceticism and drown it in hedonism. And often, they come to _symphilosopheín_.'"

Ciel gave him a blank look.

Sebastian smiled. "It means, 'to philosophize together.' From the Greek. A term populated by Husserl, Heidegger, and their entourage -- who, as it so happens, did engage in plenty of _symphilosopheín_."

"So I take it that _you_ like philosophy, too."

"I wouldn't say that. To 'like' something is to take pleasure in it, isn't it? But my relationship with philosophy is not one I chose on my own terms. I am merely burdened by a mind as inquisitive as it is _attentif_ \-- forgive me, I forgot the English word…"

"Observant," the boy said. And watched Sebastian. Carefully. " _That_ part, I don't doubt."

Sebastian chose to ignore the tone. "I also studied it at the Sorbonne. Many years ago, now. But the memories are still fresh. Warm summer nights, dusty libraries, and eccentric professors who spoke of ideas as passionately as others do only of war." _Or sex._

The boy continued to watch Sebastian. 

Sebastian could almost see the calculations unfolding beyond the attentive surface of those eyes.

Sebastian reached for his papers, filters and tobacco, and began to roll another cigarette. "Are you interested in existentialism, perchance?" A beat. "Oh, don't look at me so suspiciously, that was a very reasonable guess. It's part of the identity of this city."

"Is it?"  
  
"Yes." Sebastian smiled. "The plight of existence is universal, but us French people feel it most keenly."

"Indeed." The boy stared at him like people do at the bonobos at the zoo, waiting for them to do something uncannily human.

Sebastian fitted the tobacco into a straight line on the rolling paper. It stuck to his fingers, stringy like viscous soil. A sharp and earthy smell bit into his nose. The filter squished between his fingers as he fitted it into the edge of the paper. The tobacco molded into a tight shape as he began to roll it between his fingers. He applied more pressure where it was thicker and pulled the tobacco to where it was thinner. 

"My advice is: don't start with the chic, sexy existentialists." Sebastian gave the paper a lick from one end to the other, sealing it closed. He took a second to take note of the acrid taste, the first tease of the incoming jolt.

He glanced over at the boy.

Who was still staring at Sebastian, eyes focused and sharp. Still suspicious, as if he hadn't quite made up his mind about if he could Sebastian seriously or not. A challenging edge to it.

"If you want to understand them, go a little further back in time. Start with... _la phénoménologie_. Phenomenology, in English. It's quite a mouthful, but it's a beautiful word, isn't it? It has a rhythm to it. A _trimètre iambique_ all by itself. A iambic..."

"Trimeter," Ciel finished. "I've heard of phenomenology" -- and the kid actually managed to pronounce it fluidly -- "but I'm not sure what it is."

"Ah. Well, that's all right. Very few people can claim to know."

"Yet you fancy yourself one of them, I suppose."

Sebastian put down the finished cigarette on the table next to his cup of coffee. Slim, white. Tendrils of tobacco spilled out at the top.

"In its full breadth and entirety?" Sebastian gave the boy a slow smile. "Hardly. A concept as big as this one may take hundreds of hours to grasp completely. There's too many other things competing for my attention. But --" and he shrugged -- "I know enough."

And Sebastian leaned back in his chair. Said nothing and let the silence between them needle the boy.

It worked. "Go on, then."

"At its core, it's not so much a theory as it is a method of philosophical inquiry. In its most condensed form… to describe phenomena."

"That's it?"

"Ah." Sebastian huffed mildly. "You don't seem to understand the magnitude of this idea. For millennia, philosophers had been occupied with abstract questions such as, 'what is real? How can I know anything is real? How does my consciousness fit into the world around me? What is their connection? How can I know that I'm not actually the only thing that exists?' And so on, _ad infinitum, ad nauseam_ . Phenomenology made a startlingly different emphasis. These questions were no longer important; what was important were the _things themselves_."

"So describing these phenomena is the method of accessing the nature of the things themselves?"

"Precisely."

"That still sounds too simple," the boy said.

"Let's take this, for example." He reached for his cigarette and held it up between his fingers. "What do you see?"

The boy didn't miss a beat. "A noxious and pretentious habit."

"Ah. Completely and entirely _wrong_. That is not phenomenology. That is a presumption, an association -- did I pronounce that right?"

"No," the boy said. " _Association_."

Sebastian didn't hear any difference, but -- "Okay, then." A pause. "The point is, it's an idea. You seem disdainful of it, and that is an emotional... association. And there are many other associations you could make, too: you might define this cigarette as a product of dried and fermented leaves. Or as a set of chemicals and additives. You might separate it into the parts it's made up of: you might say it consists of tobacco, of a filter, of paper. You might say that it's sensual or romantic, a little rebellious. That it carries an captivating air of not giving a damn. Or you might analyze it as what it does to the body biologically. How nicotine speeds up the heart rate. How it narrows the blood vessels in the frontal cortex."

"And I suppose none of these descriptions are phenomenological," Ciel said.

"Precisely that. All of these comments are a form of what you might call _epoché_."

An interested glint in the boy's eyes. "I know that word. _Epoché_. The withholding of judgements."

"In the Stoic and other traditions, yes," Sebastian said. "Very good. But in the context of phenomenology, it's about reduction. It's about getting to the heart of the experience, stripped from subjective baggage. It's the removal of all the extra padding to reveal the thing as it really is."

"I see." The boy's eyes were locked onto Sebastian's, and toggled swiftly between two invisible spots in the air.

Sebastian took his lighter. "There are some things we talk about phenomenologically all the time. Like food. We don't talk about how many grams of butter and sugar and chocolate went into the cake we're currently enjoying. We don't analyze its exact… composition. Well, us French people do. You British, though? Ah, pitifully unappreciative of the complexity of good food."

The boy snorted. "Which, by your own argument, makes us more intuitively phenomenological, then."

That had been a good observation. Quick, too.

"Touché," Sebastian said. "Well. Let's do a little example." Sebastian placed the cigarette between his lips, and bit down on it once to flatten it. A flick of his finger. A flame erupted, a yellow-orange heart held up by a cold blue stem and topped by a lustrous bulb of blinding light. Sebastian guided the end of his cigarette right into the heart. And sucked.

The tip gleamed.

Sebastian took out the cigarette and took a deep breath. 

He blew out the smoke, slowly. "The aroma is at once acrid and bitter, with an edge of char to it. The smoke is a weight in my chest. And... _comment dit-on_? A noise in my brain, like the ring of a bell. And between my fingers, it's still spitting smoke, do you see? When I grind it out in the ashtray, the fire will die, and only ash will remain. That, and a noxious smell, as you said." A pause. "Do you understand?"

"I understand very well." The boy's tone was careful but stilted. "What I'm not clear on is the _point_ of all of this. This seems rather… workmanlike. Where's the philosophy?"

"The philosophy is in the thing," Sebastian said. "It's making philosophy out of experience, and about understanding consciousness from a first-person perspective. Everybody lives in a self-defined conceptual world. And we're always surrounded by an infinitive number of objects. You could look at me, or the lamp above us, or the waitress, or out at the street. This lighter, my cup of coffee. You could try to draw it, the cup I mean, but you would never manage to create a faithful replica. The... _complexité_ is infinite. Which details of the environment you focus on defines your conceptual, your _phenomenological,_ frame -- and with that, your existence."

"... I see," the boy said. 

Sebastian looked at him across the space of the table that separated them.

A look of focused contemplation turned the corners of his lips downward. His eyes had a far-away look in them, now. No longer focused on Sebastian. Glazed over, lost in thought.

If Sebastian could look inside this boy's head, what would he see?

Perhaps he was turning over concepts, compiling them. Filtering them through his experience and values and preferences, sorting them, putting them together. Perhaps then he'd see if there was a nook somewhere along the sprawling mental models of the world the boy had built for himself, somewhere into which he could fit these new pieces of information. 

Probably. Maybe.

But Sebastian couldn't know. Would never know, not even if the boy ever told him. The mind was not a thing that could be seen or touched or heard. It was far more elusive than that.

Anyway.

"Try it," Sebastian said.

Ciel's eyes hardened into a questioning look.

"I wouldn't be a very good teacher if I didn't take what I said from the theoretical to the practical, would I?" Sebastian smiled. "Describe something to me phenomenologically."

The boy made a sour face. "No. My tea is still back at my table."

"Have some of my coffee."

"No." The boy's voice fell like a stone.

Sebastian sighed. "Okay. Well. There's a whole lot more I could tell you on the topic of phenomenology.... it changes how we think of the human mind itself. What we think of as _essence_. The essence of a thing is what it _does_ , you see. But --" and Sebastian gave an elaborate shrug -- "that is at least another ten minute's worth of exposition on my part. So."

Sebastian leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table, and searched for the boy's eyes.

Found them.

Sebastian smiled. Let his eyes soften and his voice drop. "I'm still curious about you."

"Oh." The boy blinked once, slowly. "The essence of a thing is what it does? Interesting. So by that logic, you weren't just creeping on me. You _are_ a creeper."

Sebastian choked on his own spit.

Fuck. This boy was quick. Swift and sharp and precise as a whiplash. 

But the boy looked unoffended. He had thawed enough to look at Sebastian without open hostility. Instead, his eyes glinted with interest, now, and oh. He was _smiling_.

Close-tipped and tight. More than a little derisive. Almost not there at all.

But it was.

Sebastian smiled in return. "Okay. Okay. I'll admit it: I _have_ been looking, though 'creeping' is much too harsh a judgement -- and implies intentions that I won't admit to." _You're probably not wrong, though._ "I saw what you were reading. I thought I might have found a kindred spirit.

Not a lie, he realized. But neither was it the whole truth. 

Sebastian held up his hands in mock-surrender. "So, there you have it. I, the defendant, lay my sins upon you. I have only answered the siren's call to _symphilosopheín._ So tell me, what will your judgement be?"

The boy dropped the smile, but the expression it left behind was at least neutral. "I'll acquit you. You're nothing I can't handle, anyway." 

A slow smile curled around Sebasian's lips. _Oh_?

He'd said it casually, and now he wasn't looking at Sebastian anymore. He was waving at one of the waitresses until she stopped by their table. The boy ordered another Earl Grey in flawless tourist French. Did he expect this conversation to last for a while, then?

Not surprising, perhaps: they were having an engaging conversation. Ciel had kept him on his toes, challenged him, but given him credit where it was due, and oh -- he was pretty. 

Very pretty. It was even more obvious this close.

Sebastian let his eyes drag over the arch of his eyebrows down over his features. High cheekbones, skin like poured cream, his lines as rich and defined as Grace Kelly's. And Sebastian glanced at his neck, scanning every bit of exposed skin. That rosy undertone to it. That hue of pink he shared with so many of his countrymen.

Little piggies from across the Channel.

Would he squeal, too?

Ah. Not yet, though. Not yet.

"So." Sebastian dragged out the word. Enjoyed the moment. "What do you study, then? Is it philosophy?"

"You assume I'm a student."

"Am I wrong?"

"Not entirely." The boy waved his hand dismissively. "How old are you?"

"Ah. Older than you probably think."

The boy gave him a quick once-over. 

Then he leaned in a little closer, and a look of honest interest surfaced on his face. "How come your English is so good?"

Sebastian smiled. "Is it?"

"Your breadth of vocabulary is unusual for a second-language speaker," the boy said. "Your pronunciation could use some work."

Such a brat. But it was probably high praise, coming from him.

Sebastian shrugged. "There's a few reasons. I read. A lot. I've been doing it in three languages for most of my life. And my brother married an American woman ten years ago, which is probably the most unorthodox thing he's ever done." Sebastian took a sip from his coffee and looked at the boy over the ceramic rim of the cup. "So, is philosophy your calling, or…?"

"I read Economics," the boy said brusquely. "What do you do?"

"Oh, and finally our conversation turns to the technicalities of our daily contribution to capitalist society."

Ciel raised one expectant eyebrow. "Are you going to dodge the question?"

"Ah. No, no, I will not. Let me think." 

Sebastian settled back into his chair. 

All the surrounding sounds -- the clatter of trays, the murmurs of conversation, the shifts of clothing, the spiked laughter -- fell away. 

The boy looked at him expectantly. Sebastian met his eyes.

Sebastian had explained this so many times that he knew exactly what he was going to say. He'd recited it many times. Printed it into his memory.

Mireille returned with the boy's order of tea.

The boy stirred his cup absently. His attention was back on Sebastian. Quiet. Probing.

Sebastian had perfected just the right kind of intonation when he talked about it. Too humble and people really would fail to see his acclaim. Too much and people's jealousy won against their good will. His tone had to be just right, the delivery casual and fluid.

"You asked me what I did, and that is indeed an easier question to answer than what I am. It's simpler, more straight-forward. And the answer is: I sketch, and draw, and paint. Most of my professional work has been in portraiture, but I have drawn mechanical diagrams for manuals, and provided a still life painting for a magazine. But I have many loves in life. I like the written word as well. I've written a play and a guest article in _Les Temps Modernes_ , though it is quite difficult to find the time for writing next to my work in art. I've also written some musical scores, a combined thirty-three pieces of them. I sold a few of them. I also enjoy solving mathematical problems. I'm especially interested in chaos theory. And, above all -- and, perhaps, most passionately -- I enjoy philosophizing. Philosophy is not my only muse… but likely the most tempting."

Ciel looked at him levelly. Waited.

Quirked an eyebrow. "Is that all?"

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't mention any actual work. Something that consistently pays the bills." And the boy tilted up his chin and inspected him then, haughty and down along the arc of his nose, like a general assessing a troop of green boys. "Only that you sold a few things out of the many you do."

Sebastian felt a cough curl at the back of his throat. He cleared it. "I wait tables at a very well-known café. In the city center."

"Ah." Something in the boy's eyes shifted. "I see."

The boy raised the tea cup to his lips. Tilted it back, and took a sip. Swallowed delicately and looked at Sebastian across the lilac blue rim of it. "So… you do all of those things you just mentioned? You draw, you paint, you write. You are talented in music as well, and reasonably prolific in that field. You have a talent for mathematics and philosophy. Is that correct?"

Sebastian shrugged.

"Well. That is impressive, I'll admit." The boy put down the cup with a clatter. "You must not be very good at any of them, though."

Sebastian blinked. Once.

Again.

Had he heard that right?  
  
_Surely_ , he hadn't just --

But the brat _had_ , and he wasn't done yet, and he had the audacity to sound _indifferent_ when he said, "You really should pick something. You're not that young anymore, are you?"

Sebastian sat there for what seemed like hours. It could only have been seconds, but he struggled to catalogue all the reactions in his body.

A visceral tug at his guts. A clench in his pectorals. A grind of his teeth, so hard that he felt the tension in his cranium.

The boy looked at him as if it had been a perfectly natural thing to say. His eyes were even. His blinks were neither hurried nor languid.

And his voice had been fucking _blasé_.

Sebastian's guts contracted into a dense, bitter, fiery ball.

Breath whistled from in between his teeth. He tossed his notebook into his bag. His lighter, his tobacco, his filter, his rolling papers, and he threw it over his shoulder.

He ran a hand through his hair. Steadied himself. Looked at the boy.

Surprise spilled over his features, and fuck, that was the most honest emotion he'd seen on his face throughout the entirety of their conversation. It thrilled Sebastian, but it wasn't enough.

He said, "Well. That was a good conversation, with a surprisingly undignified end." 

The chair screeched on the floor when he got up. 

Surprise had made way for open confusion on the boy's face. His lips dropped open. "Wait --"

Ah. 'Wait'. Well, at least that was something that Sebastian was used to hearing.

He seized the power this word filled him with. Clung tight to it. Let it soothe away the tension in his body, until he was calm, calm again, calm and serene.

"You were a fine enough diversion, for a while," he said. "Good luck in Paris. You might need it."

He hadn't even paid for that last coffee he ordered. Let the brat do it. 

Sebastian turned to leave, and he went out of the café and grabbed his bicycle and rode it home. And he made himself some food, and he watched television, and it was only later, much later, in the communal shower that he shared with the other tenants on his apartment floor, that he looked at his hands and noted the half-moon prints his own fingernails had left in his palms.

  
  


* * *

It was clear what Sebastian needed. Painfully obvious. A very short contemplation on his next course of action made it obvious.

He needed a fuck. A good, long, old-fashioned fuck.

It had been a few weeks now since the last time he'd put his cock into a wet hole of some kind. That messy hand job outside the bar last week hadn't even counted as a proper encounter. 

He would get a little more tonight. 

But did he want a man or a woman?

Men were simpler than women, and more predictable, but the ones who embraced their proclivities fully and entirely were almost _too_ shameless, and the ones that didn't -- the ones that were delightfully startled by their own desires -- were by their very nature difficult to entangle into any sort of convenient short to mid-term agreement.

A woman, then. 

Sebastian was in no mood to go out and try to meet someone new. Someone on his list of back-ups for exactly this sort of situation would do.

He started at the top of the list. Michelle. A dentist. A polite freckled redhead with just the right kind of edge in her eyes. He'd visited her office only one, but her ritzy apartment in the Avenue Montaigne several times after.

She picked up on the fifth ring, and sounded displeased to hear him.

After a minute of stilted small talk, Sebastian ventured forth with, "Listen: I have a bottle of wine, a new Sinatra record, and at least three hours to dedicate to every part of your body."

Silence on the other end of the line. A child's giggle, and an answering screech from another. Then: "Go to hell," a click, and the crackle of static.

Oh. Well, that had not been his best line, admittedly. He was too tired to be particularly clever tonight.

Sebastian shrugged, scratched out Michelle's name, and looked for the second name on the list.

Alice. Nearly opaque blue eyes, a tumble of blond hair. A seasoned woman, nearly forty already, but refined, trim, and she could quote Baudelaire.

A gruff male voice answered the call. Sebastian hung up without a word. He remembered that arrangement all too well.

He moved on to the third name.

Seul-bi. A South Korean girl he'd met at the library, the daughter of a nurse who'd fled the post-war desolation in the 50's. He'd been very interested in her once; her hair was the kind of true black that shone blue in the light, and her eyes were quick and bright. 

She hadn't held his interest for very long, though. He knew more about the Confucian legacy in East Asia than she did. 

But she was young, only twenty and she had nice breasts, firm and high on her chest. She also liked it rough, which sounded good to Sebastian right now.

She picked up on the second ring.

"Hey. It's Sebastian. What are you up to tonight?"

A rustle at the other end of the line. "Hmm. Finishing a report."

"Oh? Is it due tomorrow?"

"No. Wednesday."

"Perfect," Sebastian said.

Silence. "What do you mean?"

"Surely that's not too hard to figure out."

She laughed. "You haven't talked to me in two months and you expect me to just come over at a moment's notice? I have a life, you know."

She spoke French with a very alluring accent. Sebastian felt his mind start to wander.

"Of course you do." He smiled and hoped she could hear it. "Pretty and smart girls are rarely idle. So, are you coming?"

A contemplative noise on the other end of the line. Not a no. This one would say yes.

Time to put in just a _little_ effort.

"I remember, you know." He lowered his voice. "One o'clock, isn't it?"

She was at his door an hour later.

Sebastian poured wine, put on Frank Sinatra, and time slowed and thickened. He spent half an hour on teasing and flirting. On building up the tension. Casual touches on her shoulder, her elbow, down to a smooth thigh. This was meaningless, but it was still important to work up to it, to let the desire marinate in a delicious kind of ache. Seduction was the best kind of aesthetics, and thus the only kind of moral imperative that mattered.

He guided her toward the bed.

Soft, yielding. A soft parting of legs, a shivering roll of her spine. He pinned her wrists against the mattress. Bit her neck. And she tensed beneath him, shuddered, sighed beneath the hard rhythm of his hips.

It was something of a rebirth. Sex cleansed away the palate. Wiped clean the fogged-up glasses of his focus. A climax was a perfect weightless moment: it was physically impossible to think about anything at all, and once thought returned, it returned to a mind well-sated and pliant.

After two rounds, he excused himself to the bathroom, and stared at his own face.

Good. It had worked. Whatever he had felt at the café earlier was gone. He could smell the sex on himself, and that was a good smell, a comforting one, thick and musky. 

He sprayed some water on his face and rubbed his palm over it. 

He refocused his eyes. Just behind his head, reflected in the mirror, the shapes lingered.

They were rolling. Wavering. Closing in on him, and receding. The shapes shimmered beneath the dingy light of the bathroom, like crystals woven into water. Waves. Undulating around him, crashing just behind the nape of his neck.

They made him shiver.

It was unusual. He'd had his last visions just last week. They came more spread out than this, usually. Usually.

A sharp knock at the door. Another one of the tenants on his floor.

Sebastian blinked, closed his eyes, counted to three, and when he opened his eyes again, the shapes were dimmer now. Almost imperceptible. They melted the edges of things around him, the laundry basket, the shower stall, the light switch, the door handle. 

But they were still there, tattooed to the inside of his eyelids. The waves were clearer when he closed them. He didn't keep his eyes closed for long.

He went back to his room and buried his head between the girl's thighs. 

The waves draped across the nick of her waist, streamed down lower. Nearly opaque now, insubstantial like a ghost. Sebastian checked in on one o'clock. She was clenching, and the waves rippled right along with her.

She left after that, thankfully, and so did the waves: his vision molded into solid reality some time later. Some time, but he didn't know how he'd spent it, his memory a complete blank. He found himself sitting on his couch, though, staring into nothingness.

With a sigh, he went to tidy up. 

Sebastian found more black hair in his bed than he was used to. It was everywhere: on the pillow, scattered across the sheets, even stuck in the crevice between the mattress and the frame of his bed.

So much hair. He didn't remember pulling that hard.

* * *

Sebastian woke up with an ache in his jaw.

He massaged it with two fingers while he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. His alarm clock erupted in shrill wails. Sebastian banged his fist down on it, and got out of bed.

He boiled water in the shared kitchen. Some of the other tenants were there, the always teary-eyed woman from next door whose name Sebastian didn't even know. Jean-Marie, the noisy carpenter from down the hall, sauntered up with a grin. Some movie called "Blowup" just won the Grand Prix at the Cannes Film Festival, apparently.

Sebastian ignored him, and sat down by the window. The fingers of dawn shifted out across the city.

The sky was clear, today. At least it wasn't likely that there would be a storm. 

It was a good thing what had happened, really. Sebastian's brief obsession had been put to a rest, and now he was free to pursue other ones. There was no shortage of that in this city, surely: he could take up the piano again. He'd gotten pretty good once, better than the other students, going from the simple tunes of Beethoven's Für Elise to Rachmaninov's somberly complex Elégie. Or he could join Jacques at the cinémathèque française. Or join Irène's silly communist club, even. Endless possibilities branched out before him.

Right now, they all threaded back into a single one. It was time to get to work. 

Sebastian stubbed out a cigarette he hadn't realized he'd been smoking and walked out of the building.

The café was in a blur of smoke already. "You're late," said Juliette.

Not even ten minutes. Sebastian grit his teeth, and forced himself to slide back into the role of the waiter. Back to being the smile behind the tray of steaming coffee cups.

Overloaded tray from the kitchen again. How could these people never remember that a 15 and a 23 centimetre plate didn't fit on a 35 centimetre tray? 

He was the slim figure in black circling the tables. 

Some man with no manners, a carelessly tossed 10 francs bill.

He was the scorned beast aching for another hit of nicotine.

He found himself in the courtyard some time later, a pleasant buzz in his ears. 

The door burst open with a clang.

Sebastian looked through the veil of smoke.

Robert threw a towel over his shoulder. "Have you -- have you _seen_ the car that just pulled into the driveway?"

"There's always nice cars out front." Juliette rolled her eyes. "They're clearly not paying us enough."

"No, no, no," said Robert. "It's a Jaguar E-Type, I've seen maybe five of those in Paris in the past five _years_. We should --

Sebastian was more surprised at his own lack of surprise when he turned around. Through the open door, a figure walked in a vision of blue, eyes and clothes and ring and all.

Everyone in the courtyard craned their necks for a glimpse.

Sebastian closed his eyes, and blew out the remaining smoke in two slow gusts of breath.

The boy sat down at a table near the front door. He threw around furtive glances, eyes skipping from one person to the next while trying not to look interested. Searching.

Sebastian smiled. "This one's mine."

The boy's eyes swirled right at him.

He was dressed even nicer than usual, today. Pompous, almost. A fine blazer with startling blue contrasts crinkled at his cinched-in waist. An gleaming Oxford shoe tapped the floor. Repeatedly.

Sebastian let the image of the waiter suffuse him, let it straighten his spine, lend a grace to his step. He came to a halt in front of the table. 

Young bright eyes looked up at him.

Sebastian dropped his voice to a chic bored lilt. " _Bonjour, monsieur_ ," and in English, "may I receive the honor of your order?"

He wondered if the boy had heard that hint of mock-politeness.

He had. The corners of his lips twitched downward in displeasure, but he only said, "I'll have a coffee."

"What kind of coffee, sir?"

"Black," Ciel said. "Black will do."

Sebastian nodded and turned around and walked into the kitchen. He started to boil some water. Took a pot from the shelf.

The cook jerked at a frying pan. "Hey! So what did that fancy-looking boy want?"

"Nothing I can't give him," Sebastian said, and rattled the coffee box.

He added a few tablespoons of coffee. Idly, he wondered how many drops of arsenic it would take.

The boy weighed fifty-five kilograms, give or take, didn't he? Around seventy milligrams, then. Ninety to be sure. A hundred and twenty and the boy would probably drop dead right then and there.

Ah. An interesting idea, but then he couldn't tell him why he was here.

Sebastian pushed the plunger down to the bottom of the pot, poured the coffee, and returned to the bustle of the café.

He approached the boy and bowed his head. "One black coffee, sir."

The boy raised the cup to his nose and inhaled, eyes closed, a look of concentration on his face. Then he tilted the cup and pursed his pink lips around the white china, tilted back his head, let the coffee drizzle into his mouth, and swallowed, close-lipped.

A peculiar sort of calm settled over Sebastian. "How is the coffee, sir?"

The boy met his eyes. "It has a strong scent." He paused to think. "Perfumed and richly earthy. The taste is acrid, dark. A little smoky. Like… like log-fire. Warm. And charred."

Sebastian waited.

The boy exhaled. "The liquid is hot in my stomach. And it gave me a jolt. Like mild electricity."

Sebastian finally allowed his face to be pulled into a smile. "As far as apologies go, that wasn't half-bad."

The boy put down the cup. "Also, it's _entirely_ disgusting. So simple compared to the endless complexity of tea." He cleared his throat and pushed the cup away. "Anyway. I didn't come here to drink coffee. I have a matter to discuss with you. Are you free right now?"

Interesting. 

"Hmm. You have no idea how things work, do you?"

The boy frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Alas, my blissfully idle student days are behind me," Sebastian said with a sigh. A quick smile. "My gainful employment sets certain limitations on my flexibility." A smile. "I get off at seven."

And Sebastian saw the second smile he'd ever seen on this boy's face.

Still not a normal one. Cold and sharp and much too knowing.

Sebastian felt something prickle his spine.

Then Madame Moreau swept into the café, her eyes wild and darting around, looking for something. Someone. When she spotted them, she froze on the spot. "Monsieur Phantomhive --"

The boy glanced at her. 

Looked back at Sebastian. "As your new de-facto employer, I give you leave to finish your shift early." 

The boy got to his feet. Cold, determined eyes peered up at Sebastian. "Come with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohshi --
> 
> Here's something I forgot to mention in the A/N of the last chapter: you'll notice I chose 'Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings.' If you have triggers, or just content you strongly want to avoid, feel free to DM me on Tumblr or leave a comment here with some way to contact you. I'll let you know if this story is safe for you to read.
> 
> Ahhh, I'm so excited to have finally gotten into the dynamics with Ciel! How do you like him? I have so much fun writing them together, and I hope I can write him as a worthy foil for Sebastian moving forward.
> 
> \--
> 
> Sneak peek for Chapter 3:
> 
> _The boy's face was ever so watchful. His eyes seemed to juggle a hundred equations all at once, taking in ever more variables to expand the corpus of his calculation._
> 
> _The expanse between them seemed to widen._
> 
> _Sebastian came to a halt in front of the desk. "Well. This is exciting.”_
> 
> _The boy raised an eyebrow._
> 
> _“The reveal is imminent," Sebastian said. “I can feel it in the air.”_
> 
> _“Oh.” The boy’s voice remained flat. “Does that mean you haven’t figured it out yet?”_
> 
> \--
> 
> Chapter 3 will be updated on **October 31st**. Thanks to everyone for reading, commenting, liking and subscribing to this story! I know it can be a big risk sometimes to follow a WIP, especially one as long as this one's going to be, but it's really motivating me to share this with you.


	4. Chapter 3: Le contrat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian could only assume that all of this was a calculated move, somehow.
> 
> It hadn’t been random. None of it. To show up at Sebastian's workplace, engage him in conversation, give a single veiled apology, reveal his position of power over Sebastian -- and then immediately whisk him away. 
> 
> There was a logic to it. A clear sense of progression to a single, nebulous end.
> 
> The boy wanted something.

It was time to admit it: the boy had surprised Sebastian. Again.

Sebastian was staring at the back of the driver's head. Had been for several minutes, probably, lost in thought and scrambling to make sense of the situation.

He blinked. Shook his head to himself, and turned it to look out of the window instead. 

They had long since left the narrow streets and fleets of pedestrians of the city center. The broad avenues of the 8th arrondissement opened up around them. Towering trees wisped past in specks of shamrock and umber. 

The leather seats sighed beneath Sebastian when he shifted, and what kind of car seats _did_ that? 

The engine purred. Low and demure, like only the classiest of whores.

Sebastian still had way too many fucking questions.

There was one, at least, that he managed to put together after a few minutes of tense silence.

"Phantomhive." Sebastian glanced at the boy sitting next to him. "That's your name, isn't it?"

Sebastian had heard the murmurs. The Phantomhive family at the helm of Funtom Co had bought the _Cafe L'Esprit_ and dozens of other cafés like it. 'Those damn Brits smearing Parisian coffee culture,' his manager had put it. And the Phantomhives were some of the worst of them, one of the most successful owners of coffee and tea shops around the globe. 

Well-known for gobbling up quaint, charming little shops and regurgitating them in profit-driven ventures that were every bit as bland as the British palate.

The boy did not turn his head to look at Sebastian. "Correct."

Fuck.

Sebastian should have paid more attention when people had talked about the Phantomhives. And he should have known from the start. He should have known that this boy was more than a simple student whittling away at the vast expanse of his free time one afternoon at a time. Sebastian should have _seen._

But he had, hadn't he? The sharpness in this boy's eyes. 

This boy. Ciel Phantomhive.

Sebastian slid his eyes over to him. Ciel stared at a point beyond the window, through the shifting light of the evening sun.

The boy had surprised Sebastian. Yes. 

Startled him, even. Enough so that Sebastian could only stand and blink at this open car door outside the café, with his stomach rising and falling as if he'd been dropped off a cliff.

He had only slipped into the seat in the end. He hadn’t even said a word. He hadn’t even _asked_ \--

He’d have to do it now. This was madness. "Where are you taking me?"

The boy didn't move his head. Only eyes rolled over to the corners. A conversation in profile. "To my place." 

"What for?"

The boy looked back out the window. "I'll tell you once we're there."

Silence reigned. The car turned down a boulevard flanked by lush trees. The driver shifted down the gear, and it locked into place with a smooth purr.

Sebastian’s eyes slid back over to the boy. 

The car's size afforded a wide berth between them. The boy’s legs were crossed. One hand rested in his lap, the other rubbed at his chin. 

His eyes were glazed over now. Empty. A theatre stage with the headlights gleaming forlornly on an empty stage.

Sebastian could only assume that all of this was a calculated move, somehow.

It hadn’t been random. None of it. To show up at Sebastian's workplace, engage him in conversation, give a single veiled apology, reveal his position of power over Sebastian -- and then immediately whisk him away. 

There was a logic to it. A clear sense of progression to a single, nebulous end.

The boy wanted something.

A flash of black in Sebastian's peripheral vision. The driver’s dark eyes met Sebastian's in the rear view mirror. They remained still and calm and slid back over to the road.

Sebastian hadn’t even properly seen the driver before he’d slid into the seat, and maybe that, too, had been by design: it hid the human component from view, and the car moved as if all on its own accord. Like a magic carpet, or a lone boat bobbing on the Styx without a ferryman in sight. 

As if all of this was steered along by the streams of this boy’s will.

But to ask too many questions was to reveal how disconcerted he was. It would be akin to an admission of weakness. 

Sebastian cloaked himself in a silence to match the boy’s, and looked back out of the window.

Trees swished by. The houses grew in size and wealth. The car slowed down as they weaved through a protest outside of the American embassy. Clusters of angry young people with signs. ‘ _Go home_ ,’ one read in large sprawled letters. And another: ‘ _Respect the 1954 Geneva Accords_.’ 

The boy sighed in displeasure.

At the next crossing, the car shrugged to the right, further West into Neuilly-Auteuil-Passy. 

Private mansions with high fences lined the avenues. Expensive cars sat in the driveways, big signs warned of guard dogs. 

There was one house as big as Sebastian’s entire apartment building. The next approached the size of the school building he’d attended back in Brittany. Another rivaled the size of the bloody city hall, and then --

A swerve, a turn, and the car slid to a halt in front of a large gate.

Silence.

Ciel uncrossed his legs and shifted in his seat.

The gate opened with a series of jittery creaks, and the car moved forward into the driveway. It spun around once, and Sebastian got a good look at the building in front of him.

 _Fuck_.

He felt the boy’s eyes on his face, then. Curious. Sharp.

Sebastian took a deep breath. The air thrummed in his blood. 

Sebastian avoided Ciel's gaze. Stared at a space in front of him while the car came to a halt and the driver opened the door on the boy's side.

Sebastian waited. He knee shook against his palm, his heel bounced on the floor. 

The door clicked open.

Sebastian ignored the driver's hand. He swung out one leg and leapt to his feet. 

The house was as big as fucking church.

 _Breathe_.

One foot in front of the other, the slap of his feet on the asphalt. The crackle of tiny stones beneath his soles. Sebastian followed Ciel and his driver up the stone steps. 

The Phantomhive mansion rose up high into the sky, encircled by patches of garden. The air was thick with the scent of flowers and grass.

The building wasn’t the biggest, most imposing house they’d passed. Nor was it the most beautiful.

Twin turrets guarded the entrance on either side. Their sharp spires ripped into the belly of the sky. 

The house hadn't been designed for beauty or aesthetics. It looked fortified, combative. 

And it felt _off_ , somehow. Strangely warped and ill-measured. Like a toy castle with oversized dimensions.

The driver pushed open the doors and the three of them walked inside. 

The air cooled on Sebastian's skin.

A too-bright foyer opened up before them. A wide staircase sat in the middle, flanked to either side by vases, clocks, and doors that led further into the bowels of the house.

Paintings broke up the monotony of the white walls. In one of them, a fencer in full gear penetrated a bull’s neck. The animal's wide, horrified eyes stared at the viewer. A ruby-red stream gushed from its wound.

Everything was calculated to look imposing.

And what else was at the root of that than a desire to intimidate?

The boy said, "Anthony." 

The driver flinched, and it was only then that Sebastian realised that there had been a note of warning in the boy's voice.

The driver averted his eyes. "Yes, sir."

The boy waved his hand. "I’ll take it from here."

The man bowed, clicked his heels, and disappeared through a door to the stairway's left.

An orchestra of clocks ticked in a unified mechanical staccato. It reverberated off the walls and closed in on Sebastian, _tick-tock, tick-tock._

"Follow me." The boy turned on his heel.

And Sebastian did. Up the staircase, to the left, and around the corner. 

A maid was dusting off a vase; she flinched when she saw them approach, and scurried away like a mouse that had caught the whiff of a cat.

Sebastian kept following the boy. Down another corridor, across a plush carpet, past another portrait of a fencer and a large window that oversaw a sprawling garden.

The boy stopped.

Sebastian nearly walked into him. He ground the toes of his shoes against the carpet at the last second. 

Sebastian breathed in. The boy was close now.

A hint of something dark and spicy. Cologne?

Ciel made a low noise at the back of his throat, took another step forward, and swung open a door.

The boy looked over his shoulder. Nodded.

Sebastian followed.

The massive desk in the middle of the room arrested Sebastian’s attention. The boy approached it, swerved around it, and sat down on the chair on the other side of it. 

Sebastian took a deep breath. Then another.

Bookcases lined the walls. A plush carpet gave way beneath Sebastian’s feet. Neatly ordered pens and several stacks of documents lay on the desk.

An office, surely. This boy's office.  
  
Ciel steepled his hands, leaned his chin on them, and waited.

Sebastian met his eyes.

The boy's face was ever so watchful. He looked as if he was juggling a hundred equations all at once, taking in ever more variables to expand the corpus of his calculation.

Sebastian felt the expanse between them widen. He felt compelled to speak. "Well. This is exciting." 

The boy raised an eyebrow.

"The reveal is imminent." Sebastian came to a halt in front of the desk. "I can feel it in the air."

"Oh." The boy’s voice remained flat. "Does that mean you haven’t figured it out yet?"

And Sebastian had, of course.

The question had churned away at the back of his mind. He’d processed and examined throughout the drive, and discarded all the possibilities save for one. The only one that explained all of this.

Sebastian met the boy's eyes. "Given that you brought me here with such urgency and that we're in an office, I can only assume that you would like to offer me further employment…" Sebastian smiled, and allowed just a hint of filth in it. "Or would very much like to make it look that way."

If the boy had picked up on the suggestion, he didn't show it. "I have a proposal for you."

The boy was making such a show out of it.

"A proposal, you say? That sounds rather ominous."

The boy kept his face blank. "I want you to tutor me in philosophy."

And _that,_ Sebastian had not expected. 

But he kept looking at the boy and willed his face to remain impartial. "You want me to be -- your philosophy tutor? Me?" He felt a smile settle on his lips. "Are none of the other fancy people in this mansion up for a bit of philosophizing?"

"They're butlers, maids, and other staff," the boy said. "I no longer employ extracurricular educational staff."

"No longer?"

"Correct," the boy said, unconcerned. "I fired them."

The unapologetic candor of it made Sebastian smile. "Oh? For what reason, I wonder?"

"Would you like to take pointers from your predecessors?" the boy said moodily.

"In light of their being fired, it seems that's not all I'll need," Sebastian said. "What moved you to dispose of them?"

"They were simply quite insufferable." A beat. "Let's discuss terms."

Ah. Of course.  
  
Sebastian inhaled. Exhaled. "I'm already employed at the café, as you know. _Your_ café, as you’ve pointed out quite clearly. What kind of time commitment were you thinking of? How many hours a week will you be needing me for?"

"An hour a day," the boy said evenly. "Twice a week, to start with. There will be a trial period until the end of August. The maximum length of the contract will be ten months. I'm going back to England next year, so further renewals will be out of the question. Of course, I can dispose of you at any point before that, but if you don't disappoint me, you shall get your chance to renegotiate."

"How generous."

"It's fair and practical." The boy gave him a quick once-over.

Sebastian felt like a racehorse being examined at the starting line. He smiled. "And what about me? What am I getting out of this?”  
  
The boy flattened his lips into a line. "You will not find your compensation lacking."

"Ah. Well, promising as that sounds, that's far too vague and subjective to give any reasonable response to, don’t you think?"

The boy said nothing for a while. Then he sighed, from deep within his chest, as if this were all a great bother. Sebastian heard the sound of a drawer being pulled open.  
  
Then the sound of paper slapping against a surface.  
  
"Here," the boy said. "I've already prepared the contract for you. Take a look." He reclined in his seat, one elbow braced against the armrest. He gestured toward the chair on the other end of the desk. "Sit down."  
  
_You arrogant little prick_ , Sebastian thought. _You're so sure of yourself, aren't you?_

But Sebastian pulled out the chair. Noted that it was a far simpler model than the one the boy was sitting in. He sunk down into it and felt the cushion give way like butter.

He reached for the document.

A dozen or so pages of typewritten paper. Neatly clipped together at the corner.

Sebastian had not signed very many contracts in his life, but this one seemed as real as any of them.  
  
_Employment Agreement,_ it said _. Between Funtomhive Co_ , and an address in London. And then there was his own name, _Sebastian Michaelis, born October 22nd, 1936_.

The brat knew his birthday. He must've looked it up from the café’s employee files. Next came his address, _30 Rue des Envierges, Paris_ , followed by his fucking social security number, and wasn't there a law against this? 

"Well researched, I see," Sebastian said dryly.

The boy was watching him. Silently. There was a glint in his eyes.

He was waiting for something.

Sebastian turned the page. _Terms and Conditions of Employment_ , above a page ordered into headlines of several different sizes and followed by neat bullet points.  
_  
_ _The employee will be engaged in the role of educational tutor in the subject of Contemporary Philosophy._

 _The terms of employment are conditional upon the employee's fulfillment of their duties. If the employee's standard of performance, attendance or conduct are deemed unsatisfactory, the agreement is rendered void._  
  
Hah. Unsatisfactory conduct? By whose subjective estimation? This brat's?

_… the employee is expected to comply with all reasonable directions…_

Sure.

 _… and agrees that they will perform necessary job functions and comply with all Employer policies, rules, regulations, including and up to section 3 of the appendix_...

He stopped reading. Took a second to compose himself and raised his eyes to meet the boy's.  
  
"You've got to be kidding me," Sebastian said.  
  
"It's a standard work contract."  
  
"Yes, perhaps," Sebastian said. "Perhaps if you're looking for a dog."

Blue eyes widened.

A clock ticked.

The boy's eyes returned to their normal size. "Flip to page eight." 

A part of Sebastian wanted to refuse right then and there. He wanted to put on his best mocking grin, get up, and toss out a one-liner that would make this little English prick flounder. Sebastian would come out of this with his dignity intact and stories to tell his friends for days.

But he turned the pages. One after the other, all the way to page 8.

 _Compensation_ , it said. And a lot more words written in careful judicial language, _the employee shall receive a monthly compensation of_ , and below that, a number.

Sebastian sat very still. Careful not to show any emotion at all.

"Well?" the boy asked. Lowly. Expectantly.

Sebastian cleared his throat. There was something at the back of it, suddenly, soft and jittery. And pulsing.

 _700 nouveaux francs,_ his mind repeated hollowly. _For two hours a week._

Seven. Hundred. Nouveaux. Francs. 10 times that in anciens francs. More than his father made when he was growing up. More than he'd ever made for so little work. He'd never even come _close_.

Fuck.

Seven… hundred…

The boy was observing him.

Sebastian swallowed. "That seems reasonable."

"Reasonable," the boy repeated thoughtfully. "Three times what you make at the café, if I'm not mistaken?"

 _Of course you’re not._ Sebastian smiled; he felt the tightness of it around his mouth. "Three times as much fake money that depends on an arbitrary agreement by the government and the general populace that a piece of paper should have a certain value, indeed."

"So?" The boy’s fingers twitched once before he smoothed them back into a perfectly flat line. "You think we should go back to bartering or trading bars of gold? Commodity money stopped working centuries ago."

"It fell out of favor centuries ago," Sebastian said. "And made way for money that isn't even real."

"That's ridiculous," the boy said. "Money has _always_ been an abstract concept -- or what universal law is there to posit that a goat should be worth two clumps of silver ore?"

Sebastian bit his lower lip. "Silver ores have intrinsic value that doesn't rely on a shared delusion that paper should have more value by printing numbers on it and putting a government seal on it."  
  
"Real is what the majority of people agree is real," the boy said. 

"That seems rather simple for someone interested in philosophy, doesn't it?"

"Philosophy has its place. This is a practical matter." The boy waved a hand. "What do you intend on buying with it? Rent? Food? Clothes? Last I checked, landlords, grocers and tailors were all too happy to accept paper money for their services."

"A fraction of what they'll accept in a few months' time, if we're unlucky," Sebastian said. "We're in the midst of hyperinflation again."

"Inflation need not concern you for the length of the contract," the boy said, and gave Sebastian another long, slow, assessing look. "It may move fast, but I'm sure you can move faster."

Fuck.

Sudden images filled Sebastian's mind.

More books. A _lot_ of new books. And a new bookcase to house them in, too. His old one had five cracks last time he counted. It would fit perfectly in the corner of his room.

Front-row tickets to a play or two. It had been a long time since the last time he had been to one of those. The occasional wealthy lover took him along, but none of these trysts ever lasted long enough to allow any kind of regularity to these cultural indulgences.

A car, even. A fucking _car_.

Sebastian did the math. If he didn't increase his expenses, it would only take half a year to save up for one. Perhaps he'd get a used Renault Caravelle. Sturdy but elegant.

Or he could travel instead. To the sandy beaches of the Costa Brava, or the rolling Scottish highlands. Or to the United States, even, the land of William James and Jimi Hendrix and Coca Cola and Woodstock. 

Sebastian started to sweat. The small of his back felt damp.

"Very well." It took all of Sebastian's considerable acting skills to continue to sound aloof. "For the amount of work you’re asking, this is acceptable. Do you have any other requirements?"  
  
The boy's mouth twitched, as if it wanted to snap into a smile but stopped itself at the last second. "Not much." He said it slowly. "Only what is customary for a Phantomhive employee. For one thing, I will require you to be dressed in a manner appropriate for the position." The boy closed his eyes arrogantly. "I can’t have you looking like a perpetually unemployed playwright, like you did when we met." A sliver, and his eyes slid open again. "Dressed as you are right now will do."

"Monsieur Phantomhive, as I'm sure you're aware, this is a waiter’s uniform. I don't own any other clothes of this type."

The boy waved his hand dismissively. "It will do for now. If you remain in my service… well, your presentability will become my responsibility. We will revisit this topic later." He paused. There was a sharpness in his eyes, a vague hint of it, like catching the glint of a shard of glass from one's peripheral vision, and he said, "One more thing. You shall call me 'sir'."

 _"Pfft."_ Sebastian bit out a laugh, and shook his head. _"C'est une blague?"_  
  
"No," the boy said, coolly. "It's certainly not a joke."

"You want to hire me as your tutor," Sebastian said, deadpan. "In other words, your _teacher._ What kind of teacher refers to their student as 'sir'?"

"Perhaps one who likes to make money."

"Ah." Sebastian sighed. "And one who doesn't understand the essence of what it means to be a teacher, clearly. Luckily, that doesn't apply to me. Monsieur Phantomhive, an appropriate measure of respect on the part of the student toward the teacher is integral for learning success. The honorific you propose would be very much out of place in the classroom, I fear. There are many more appropriate honorifics to use in this context, I believe…" He smiled pleasantly. "'Professor,' for instance."  
  
A snort. "You're not a professor."

"Hmm. But you're not really a 'sir,' are you?" Mock-thoughtfully. "Nor, strictly speaking, an adult. The legal age of majority is twenty-one in France. As it is in England, I believe?"

The boy's face darkened.

Oh. Had Sebastian hit a nerve?

"My father is the owner and head of Funtom Co. I am his heir. I have been running parts of the business since I was fourteen years old." Every word was clipped. "I have more responsibility right now than most people will see in their entire lifetimes."

Look at the rich boy proudly admitting to nepotism. 

Ridiculous.

"Even Napoleon was no king in the classroom." Sebastian smiled. "Or at least not if his teachers were any good."

The boy held his gaze for a few more beats. _"...Fine._ You shall only be required to refer to me as 'sir' here in this office."  
  
"Very well. The young sir is as generous as he is mature." Sebastian positioned his tone just right so that it straddled the line between sincerity and mockery. "The lessons shall not be held in here, then?"

"Of course not. I have a study for such things. That will be the place for lessons. The office is for administrative matters."

So not only did this brat have an entire office to himself, he had a _study,_ as well?

Oh. But of course. The son and heir, wasn't he? Born with a silver spoon in his mouth -- and diamond-studded diapers around his hips, probably. Sebastian could pocket any random item in this ridiculous mansion and pilfer it off for more money than he could make in three months working at the café.

But Sebastian refused to be intimidated any longer. No matter how much he liked to play at little lord, this boy was still a child.

Sebastian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "So while I'm to refer to you as 'sir' during these administrative matters… what will you call me?"

"We call all employees in this house by their first name." 

"I see." 

Ciel eyed him. "This is acceptable to you." An observation.

"Oh yes," Sebastian said easily. "I'm not in the habit of deriving self-worth out of forms of address. Sir."

The boy went very, very still. His fingers twitched on the table. The blue gemstone on his ring gleamed beneath the light. "You know what? Forget it." He held out his hand. "Give back the contract. The deal is off."

"Sir," Sebastian said, and fuck, that had sounded more nervous than he liked. He tried it again, more carefully. "Sir. Please do not be hasty. I apologize for speaking out of line. Let's discuss --"

"Did you hear me?"

" -- my teaching style. Something about it must have pleased you. To make me this offer."

The boy hummed thoughtfully.  
  
And Sebastian looked at him. Over the space of the desk. Into his eyes.

There was a glint in them. And a twitch on his lips.

The boy wasn't fucking serious about backing out of the deal, was he? And maybe never had been.

 _A bluff,_ Sebastian thought dully. _And I fell for it._

And ah. _Ah_. Of course.

Of fucking _course._

This entire fucking charade had started way before this.

The element of surprise. The boy had utilized it to his advantage, milked it for all it was worth. And his adept use of information asymmetry. The boy had kept Sebastian in the dark until they were in his office. Then he'd dropped that contract on him, premade and with all the details worked out already. And he'd started pressuring Sebastian to sign pretty much as soon as the contract first touched his hands.

 _You’re trying to railroad me into this with mob tactics,_ Sebastian thought. _How very interesting._

_Why exactly do you stoop so low? Is there something you don’t want me to know?_

_Or… is this simply fun to you?_

_Do you like to see me sweat that much, little one?_

Sebastian cleared his throat, and bit down a smile. "Well. You must have enjoyed our conversation back at the café. For you to come seek me out like this. So tell me: how do you envision these lessons to go?"

Ciel tilted up his chin. "It's outlined quite clearly in the contract, Sebastian."

"Tell me in your own words," Sebastian said. "Please."

"First of all, I want you to make the curriculum for each lesson," the boy said. "I want you to choose a logical progression through modern philosophy. With a special focus on this city's philosophy. I want to understand…" He trailed off.

Sebastian tilted his head. "Yes?" A beat. "Go on, sir, if you please."

The boy seemed to consider. He shook his head to himself. Met Sebastian's eyes. "What makes this city breathe."

Oh. How interesting. Strangely beautiful, too.

Sebastian leaned forward. "I can do better than just teach you. I can _show_ you what makes it breathe…" He smiled. Searched for the boy's eyes. "And what makes it stop."

The boy gave him a long, twining look. "We'll just continue from where we left off. Subjective reality. Phenomenology. And what comes after it, what it influenced."

"Hmm. I can certainly do this. So, the deal is back on the table, isn't it?"

"On the table, yes. But not yet signed, evidently." Ciel raised an eyebrow at Sebastian. "Go through the rest of the contract."

And Sebastian skimmed over the rest of it. He hardly comprehended a word he read, nor did he care. The decision was not going to be made by the specifics of this contract.

He arrived at the last page of the contract. 

There was already a signature, scribbled at the bottom. Sebastian squinted at it. It wasn't a Phantomhive name.

He couldn’t quite decipher the first name, but the last name definitely said ‘Midford.’

There was an empty field next to the signature, with Sebastian’s own name printed in narrow typescript. And below it, a blank field. Waiting for Sebastian's own signature.

The contract felt like a living, breathing thing that reached out to Sebastian. It wreathed invisible smoky tendrils around him and beckoned him forth. The page shone like a beacon before him.

Sebastian put pen to paper. Pressed it down. Then he raised his fingers enough to separate the contact between pen and paper, and the tip of the pen hovered just above the page. 

Inky black had stained virgin white. Just a dot of it. 

Sebastian lowered the pen again and raised his eyes.

The boy met them. A slow raise of an eyebrow. "Well? Are you going to sign or not?"

"Hmmm." Sebastian gave the boy a slow, careful smile. "I was taught to always read the fine print, especially when dealing with British people."

"Sensible advice," Ciel said. "I suggest you read fast, then. This is a time-sensitive offer." He looked at the clock. "I have a tight schedule, you know. It's past 5 PM already. I'm going to be reviewing my finance coursework tonight, and I had really hoped to have it wrapped up by now."

Fuck. 

It had to be expected, Sebastian supposed. This was clearly not the first time the boy had squeezed an acquiescence out of a reluctant business partner.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Sebastian said. "You must have miscalculated the time, then.”

The boy frowned.

"Ah." Sebastian shook his head. "I'm sure your father has taught his heir all about the importance of allowing a new employee enough time to start employment on uncoerced terms." Sebastian smiled. "A failure to do so would be quite reminiscent of the tactics of organizations far beneath the esteem of Funtom Co., after all."

The boy glared at him.

Sebastian's smile grew. 

The boy folded his hands on his desk. His voice was low, testy. "Do you require more information?"  
  
Information, yes. Precisely that. A certain kind of it.

Sebastian was past the point of lying to himself. The money was simply too good to pass up. This kind of income was a seed for endless opportunities, and Sebastian could quit his odious, mind-numbingly monotonous café job with this. It was the kind of money that meant _freedom,_ and who the fuck cared about his friends' opinions on becoming a cog in the capitalist machinery in the face of that, anyway?

Clearly, Sebastian wouldn't resist. He couldn't. And the work promised to be reasonably fun, too.

He just needed to know _how_ fun it was going to be.

"Hmm. I'd like to take a moment to think and have a cigarette."

Ciel raised an eyebrow. "You're serious."

Sebastian shrugged. "I like smoking."

"Clearly. A nasty addiction." The boy pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "Follow me. There's a balcony in the study next door."

The study looked much like the office: almost clinically tidy, efficiently decorated. Smaller, though. More intimate. Rows of books lined this room as well, but it only took a glance for Sebastian to see that these were different books; there were fewer thick tomes and more slender volumes, novels and plays and poetry. 

A long table lined by half a dozen chairs throned in the middle of the room. Behind it, heavy blue curtains framed glass doors that led out onto a balcony.

The boy gestured toward the door. 

Sebastian opened it, leaned back against the doorframe, lit his cigarette, and took a deep drag.

The boy eyed him with alarm. "Careful."

"This frame looks pretty solid." Sebastian shrugged and blew out the smoke. "Not exactly from the flea market at _Saint Ouen."_

The boy slapped the contract on the table. "Just smoke your cigarette, Sebastian."

"Hmm. I should be awarded some respect in this classroom, don't you think?"

"This is no classroom yet."

"Soon enough, perhaps. Hmm, _Mister Michaelis._ How does that sound?" 

"I see you're having fun," the boy said stiffly. "Is it wise to spend your remaining moments of contemplation like this?" 

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. But he took another drag and turned his face toward the sun.

Sexual attraction was binary. It existed or it didn't, and only if it did exist could Sebastian touch it. Only then could he draw it out. Only then could he play with it.

It was the natural prerequisite. The hook he needed. The base through which he could then haul himself in, little by little.

He could have anyone so long as his hooks caught in their flesh.

He took another drag on his cigarette. Down in the garden below, flowers swayed in the breeze. A gardener moved between the hedges, wielding a large pair of scissors. It was a beautiful day, the sun hot, the vibrant air full of possibility.

Sebastian was good at reading the silent possibilities. Of days and seasons as much as of bodies that leaned forward when he came near. Of sparkles in the eyes. 

But the boy's eyes had remained unemotional and calculating throughout all of this. He was much too cold and controlled. A frigid little thing that held his little body tight and stiff. 

It was perfectly possible that the boy just couldn't sexually respond to men at all. Perhaps his responses were limited to feminine charms -- or to no kinds of human charms at all. The boy could even feasibly have a peculiar erotic attraction to some kind of item. A stuffed animal, or a model train. The framed picture of a lost love tucked beneath a pillow. Sebastian wouldn't put it past him. He'd heard a lot of things.

He took another drag on his cigarette.

No use in speculating. He had to find out.

"I'm still curious, you know," Sebastian said. "Why you chose to come find me at the _Café L’Esprit_. Why you came after me, and made me this offer."

"I've been clear about my expectations and requirements."

Sebastian held smoke in his lungs for a few beats and released it in a plume. "Which can be filled by many people in this city with more fancy pieces of paper. Yet you came to me."

"I'm very busy. I don't spend a lot of time at university and my lectures don't leave much room for discussions. The conversation we had at the café was more interesting than most."

"So you find value in the things I say. What a shame you don't seem to like me very much."

The boy's eyes narrowed. "Don't flatter yourself. My personal affections -- or lack of them -- have nothing to do with this."

Sebastian pressed his lips together. This wouldn't work. The boy's body language was much too defensive, over there by the table. And impatient now. The boy's eyes slid back to the clock at regular intervals, as if he were expecting it to offer a dramatically different situation than it did five seconds ago.

Sebastian was running out of time, and he needed to say _something,_ so he said, "Do you like water?"

"I --" the boy looked beautifully caught off-guard before he twitched his features into a frown. "I suppose so. Who doesn't?"

"Oh," Sebastian said. "So you already like about 60% of me, then. We're off to a good start."

"What?" The boy coughed out half a laugh.

But the surprise had opened up his body language, and Sebastian took the opening.

He tipped off the ash and watched it drift down. He bent down, extinguished the cigarette on the stone, leapt back to his feet and pocketed the stump.

Then took a step toward the boy. "It's quite alright. It's perfectly rational to choose to surround yourself with people you enjoy talking to."

 _"Debating,_ more accurately."

"Of course." Sebastian took another step closer. "You could pick someone you don't particularly like to debate with. Perhaps you even should."

Sunlight illuminated part of the boy's face. Lips shiny, eyes still cast in shadow. 

_I need to think of something. Fast._

"Someone to counter your ideas. Challenge them. Represent as your nemesis. Play devil's advocate, ah. We have the same expression in French, did you know? _Jouer l'avocat du diable."_

"Hmm. That doesn't surprise me. It's a universal archetype."

"That's right." Sebastian took another step forward.

The boy eyed him. But allowed the approach.

Sebastian studied the boy's sullen face.

Most people were prettier when they smiled. Sebastian wondered if it was true for this boy as well. He’d only seen him smile once, after their discussion on phenomenology; even then, it had been a mere hint of a smile. Not long enough for Sebastian to latch onto it and file it away in his memory.

But even so, the boy was quite lovely already, wasn't he? 

He would be, of course. He was a member of the upper class, a descendant of generations upon generations of powerful men and their fair wives. He had the unmistakably aristocratic face from only the most elite genetics. Bred for fine, symmetrical features that separated the true bourgeoisie from the working class and the nouveau riche.

Sebastian wanted to draw out his seed.

It was a little funny. When Sebastian had first seen him, he'd been attracted by the boy's quiet aura, his deep dreamy eyes. He never would've imagined that the boy was such an utter bastard.

But there was something to this coldness as well. Something about this contrast between his soft, youthful cheeks and his sharp, wise eyes. Some kind of allure.

And then the boy's mouth slid open, and he was about to say something, and Sebastian needed _something_. Anything.

His eyes fell to the boy's cheeks.

"Oh." Sebastian blinked at a spot on the boy's cheek. He closed the distance between them with one more quick stop. "Hold on."

He reached for the boy's chin. His jaw was sharp against his gloved fingers.

The boy inhaled sharply. "What --"

Sebastian pointedly looked at the boy's cheek.

Ciel's long eyelashes fluttered in a series of rapid blinks. "Do I have something on my face?" 

"Move over here. Into the light," Sebastian said, and he moved his hand to the boy's waist.

The boy stiffened. 

Sebastian felt his warm body beneath the fabric of his shirt. The nip of the slim waist, the hard muscles just beneath.

Sebastian guided the boy forward, one step and then another, until the sun shafted across the entirety of his face. 

The boy kept blinking.

Sebastian watched dust motes filter through his lashes. He lowered his voice. "Hold still."

The boy did.

Permission, then.

The boy's skin was soft beneath Sebastian's gloves when he touched his cheek. Soft and nice, but it wasn't enough.

Sebastian bit into the tip of his finger, caught the tip of the glove between his teeth, and pulled it off, sowly, one curled finger after the other.

The boy was still not looking at him. He had his eyes flexed on something beyond the glass door.

But the boy was breathing too fast now, and his shoulders rose in slow tension. The skin in his jugular jolted. Once. Ever so slightly. 

The boy wasn't looking. 

But he wanted to.

Sebastian smiled.

"Hold still now." Sebastian deepened his voice. His fingertips danced over the soft curve of the boy's cheek. 

The boy's body hardened. The tension thrummed just beneath his skin and roused the nape of his neck. 

Sebastian leaned in. And closer.

The boy's eyes finally rolled over to look at Sebastian.

They widened and glazed over. Just the tiniest, tiniest bit. The smallest confused haze, only a hint of unwilling excitement. 

Sebastian smelled the fragrance of fresh, unperfumed laundry, and beneath it, the sweet and sour scent of adolescent sweat.

The boy swallowed. Dryly.

It was all Sebastian had needed to hear. He touched his fingertips to the boy's cheek, and let them linger. 

The boy’s mouth slid open. He was going to say something. Sebastian mentally counted down the moment. Three. Two --

And Sebastian leaned back. Withdrew from the boy’s personal space. Settled back into his own. He knew he was smiling, but he no longer knew what it might look like.

The boy gave him a quizzical look. His mouth clicked shut and opened again. "What -- what was that?"

"All good now." Sebastian shrugged. "So, how about that contract?"

The boy blinked. "I -- I was waiting for you to make a decision --"

"I made it." Sebastian turned back toward the table, took a hold of the contract and a pen, flipped to the last page, and signed.

He looked up. "All done."

The boy released a breath. "Okay. Good." Another breath, and the boy steadied himself. He came closer, snatched the contract out of Sebastian's hands, and studied the signature out of squinted eyes.

"Is something wrong with it?" Sebastian asked airily. "Would you prefer one written in blood?"

The boy shot him a cold look. "We're done here."

"That's all?" Sebastian gave the boy a wide smile. "Isn't there some sort of pledge?"

"A pledge. Of course." The boy nodded, mock-seriously. "One passed down from generation to generation, binding the souls of employees…" He snorted. "What? Of course not."

"Hah. Missed opportunity, if you ask me. I shall make one, then." Sebastian cleared his throat, straightened himself to his full height, and looked down at the boy thoughtfully.

Coldness had descended back over the boy's fine features, but the confusion of the earlier moment still veiled his eyes. Pink graced his cheeks. A light sheen still covered his eyes.  
  
Just a hint of it now, but oh, there would be more…

Sebastian took a step back, pressed a fist to his chest, and bowed.

"I, Sebastian Michaelis, pledge myself to your service..."

He raised his head to look at the boy. Gave him a small smile, and thought, _I'll fuck you._

"... I will endeavor to open up your mind to the wonders of philosophy…"

_I'll definitely fuck you._

"...fulfill my duties to my utmost care…"

_And how long will it take, I wonder?_

"... and your full satisfaction."

_Three months. Until the end of the summer._

"This, I swear."

He straightened himself with a small smile, and let his eyes linger on the boy’s face.

_I'll fuck you until the end of the summer._

The boy swallowed. Waited. Confusion twitched at his face. That, and something else.

"Wonderful," the boy finally said. "I hope you can keep up this enthusiasm. Now go on, be on your way. One of the maids will see you out. I expect you Wednesday, 4 PM. Do not be late."

"I won't be," Sebastian said. "Probably not too early, either. I shall strive to keep to the timeline."

The boy gave him a long, hard look. "Go, Sebastian. Go now, before I change my mind."

Sebastian smiled. "See you Wednesday, sir."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand here we have it. The stage is set, the players in place. Now the real fun can begin :D
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who has read and commented! Wow -- this fic has already overtaken my other multichapter in comment count, at a fraction of the hits. I can't thank you enough! It was my hope that I would find a small set of dedicated readers, and I'm truly very happy that there's a few of you who care about this project. :)
> 
> And yes, Ciel is technically underage in this story, as the age of civil majority and the age of consent for homosexual sex was 21 in the 1960's (meanwhile, the age of consent for heterosexual sex was _thirteen_!). I added the tag 'underage themes' to reflect this. 
> 
> Here's a little teaser for the next chapter:
> 
>   
> __
> 
> _It was rare for Ciel to get a good, undistrubed look at his tutor._
> 
> _Ciel let his eyes dart over to the man. The fine black jacket that stretched across his broad shoulders, the tie at his throat. The neat collar below his mass of curly black hair._
> 
> _The man's eyes were drawn to the paper on the desk now. Curls of hair tumbled down across his forehead, dangled by his cheeks. Concentration creased his pale face._
> 
> _Then he looked up and smiled, and he said, "I just had to add a few additional remarks."_
> 
> _Ciel reached for the paper._
> 
> _"Ah-ah." Sebastian pushed it out of Ciel's reach. "Not until the end of the lesson, remember?"_
> 
> __
> 
> .... Yes. Next chapter is from Ciel's POV. ^^ Now that we have the setup going, the next chapters will alternate between the two POVs. I can't wait to show you guys the inside of the rich brat's mind!
> 
> But I'll have to wait a bit, because the next chapter will be on **November 28th.** The reason for that is to give me more time to write ahead and maintain the comfortable cushion I have between what's posted and what I have written.
> 
> Anyway. Hope you liked the chapter! We get a lot more background info on Ciel. What do you think of him? And the premise? 
> 
> See you in November, and thanks again for your support.


	5. Chapter 4: La Lune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciel hadn't been wrong about his initial assessment of his tutor, at least. Sebastian Michaelis was good at what he did. He had a sharp mind, a bottomless well of ready comebacks that sputtered forth on his quick tongue. Watchful eyes.
> 
> They'd argued over every detail of the lessons, at first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! This chapter is a day late, but if you check my update schedule, I changed the date last week :) So, if you're ever wondering where a chapter is when it's late, check it out!
> 
> Before we begin, I have a bit of a visual treat for you. As I posted on my Tumblr, French actor Louis Garrel is a visual inspiration for this story's Sebastian, and nighttime_tea_party did me a favor and photoshopped him to resemble him even more closely!
> 
> But feel free to imagine him differently if you want. My end notes for this chapter also have some amazing fanart interpretations!!

_July, 1967_

  
  


Ciel woke up to a _Clair de Lune_ playing in his mind. 

Curious. Ciel woke up to a different song every morning, but he didn't even particularly like this one. Overrated and whimsical, less refined than Debussy's later works. The rhythm was lacking, the tonality insecure.

Ciel blinked at the ceiling. He could steal a few more moments in bed.

He lay still, closed his eyes, tapped the notes of the opening's andante against his blanket, and a peculiar kind of yearning tugged at his chest. 

Ciel swallowed thickly. Stared up at the ceiling, and got out of bed.

He gave himself over to his routine. The soundtrack in his mind dimmed.

First things first. The tension in his body had to go. 

Ciel retrieved a magazine from behind a thick volume of _Encyclopedia Britannica_ and spent a few minutes locked in intent study of the pages. The relaxing end came soon enough.

Then Ciel showered and combed his hair, and picked among one of the four outfits he wore each day. By shortly after seven, he checked himself in the mirror. Collar? Neat. Hair? Not rebelling today. Color coordination? Satisfactory.

At 7:10, Ciel had breakfast in the dining hall.

Through months of trial and error, he had discovered that this was the optimal time to eat. Aunt Frances considered anyone a slob who was still in bed by six-thirty, which meant she was safely out of his hair by that time. Edward was lazy by nature, and took full advantage of being the scandal-free child by sleeping in until eight most days.

Very occasionally, Ciel ate with his uncle. The man did not keep to a consistent schedule from what Ciel could tell. On the days that Ciel did meet him for breakfast, the two of them ate in silence while indulging in what Ciel was fairly sure were mutual feelings of complete apathy.

Apathy was far preferable to hostility and unbridled idiocy. 

Today, the dining room was blissfully empty.

Inside Ciel's mind, Claire de Lune turned into rolling arpeggios. If he closed his eyes, he could probably see the progressions in splatters of pulsing color.

Ciel didn't close his eyes. He chewed down the quiche. Set down his silverware. Drank two cups of tea, and took the third up to his office.

The summer sun fell in bars of light across his desk and illuminated his mountain of work for the day. 

The closing crescendo of _Clair de Lune_ rose in Ciel's mind and fell to silence.

He looked at the mail first. Bills and reports and requests and invitations. Ciel sorted them into different piles by urgency and level of task complexity.

Next came the newspapers. _Le Monde, Le Figaro. The Economist. Business Weekly_. He skimmed them for what was relevant to him: market developments, competitors' stocks, or market trends. 

Ciel set them aside. Time for the _real_ work.

Most days, he read reports and consulted thick tomes of French business law texts. Some days, he researched new acquisition targets. The ends of each month were marked by massive amounts of accounting. 

That was far from the worst of it, though. Sometimes, Ciel had to make phone calls, to banks or government departments or smarmy French lawyers. Ciel hated calls: being deprived of any visual information regarding the other person made him feel anxious.

No phone calls today, only briefings to read. He had sent out the offer to Tea Time, and now he had to wait.

At nine-thirty, he was brought more tea and some fruits. Lunch came at twelve o'clock sharp, for Ciel to eat on his own in his office.

His aunt had complained about that, of course. Common meals were an integral part of family culture.

Ciel had thought it wise not to tell her that doing it in company did not somehow elevate the act of masticating.

Ciel had been able to argue that he could increase his productivity if he stayed up in his office for lunch. Luckily, his aunt's fondness for efficiency outweighed her desires to subject Ciel to a daily midday ritual of scrutiny.

She still had dinner for that, anyway.

Ciel finished his food, set the paperwork aside, and his routine split into two branches

Wednesdays and Fridays, he had a philosophy lesson to prepare for.

Today was a Thursday. Keeping up with both his work for Funtom Co and his formal education was a perpetual balancing act. There weren't any classes during summer, but Ciel was going to take most of his core classes in French next semester. 

Getting a head-start would pay dividends far too ample to pass up on.

So he studied.

Microeconomics first. The formulas and ideas were child's play, but still frequently frustrating. Old Professor Herman excelled at the questionable skill of tossing mathematical formulas at his students without any context.

When he got too frustrated, he closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply. He raked through the multi-threaded lanes in his mind and searched.

_Close your eyes and think of a place that makes you happy._

Her voice had an echo in his mind. Another moment, then two, and the searching fingertips of his mind found the door.

Everything in this space was blue. Blue tranquility, blue serenity, blue solitude. He heard the trickle of a fountain, the babble of a stream. Soft notes pulsed around the scene: _Clair de Lune_ had started up again.

The rising notes burst and scattered with the ring of his phone.

Ciel picked up the receiver.

"Ciel!" Lizzie screeched into his ear.

The sound of her voice had long since unlocked a neurological shortcut to Ciel's fight-or-flight response.

Ciel swallowed it down. "Lizzie. It's... been a while."

"No kidding." Ciel could almost see her: a big smile on her face, honest curiosity in her eyes. "How are you? You never call me. Are you that busy again?"

"You know I'm always busy," Ciel said. "And I'm… fine."

"Tsssk," she said. "Have you been overworking yourself again? Do you get enough sleep?"

This, at least, was a question he could answer. "Yes, seven hours a night without fail."

"No, sweetie. Wrong answer," she chided. "You're an exchange student in Paris. This is the ideal time in life to stumble through your days perpetually sleep-deprived, hmm?"

"Given the well-documented negative consequences of sleep deprivation, that's a suboptimal idea."

"Pfft. Don't talk tough now. What happened to, 'I'll sleep when I'm dead'?"

 _Reality_. "I… being in Paris is no reason to neglect my health. You're the one who used to lecture me about eating too much sugar."

"Not that you ever listened. Anyway. How are my parents? My brother?"

"Still breathing," Ciel said. "Rather staunchly, as far as I can tell."

"Oh, I can just _feel_ the affection dripping through the receiver." Ciel heard the wink in her voice. "But you know they care about you, don't they? In their own way."

"Their way, yes. No doubt gently guided by my father's wallet," Ciel said. 

"Ciel. You know that's not true."

Her voice sounded small now, though. Quiet, pensive.

Ciel swallowed. Ventured forth carefully. "And you? How are you?"

"Oh. Hold on." A rustle on the other end of the line. Dim voices. "Paula, sweetie, not right now, I'm talking to -- yes, don't worry, I'm resting, I swear. Thank you." More rustling, and her voice cut into clarity. "Sorry, Ciel, are you still there?"

Ciel nodded. Realized that she couldn't see him, cleared his throat, and said, "Yes."

"You asked how I was? Not so fast! Don't dodge my questions. How are _you?_ Anything new with you? It's summer! You're off for a few months, aren't you?"

"That is correct," Ciel said, because he didn't know what else to say. 

Seconds ticked past. Static spit into his ear.

She was still waiting for an answer. 

Ciel sighed. "Nothing much is new. Paris is okay. Quite dirty. There's pigeons everywhere. Quaint courtyards. Everyone is busy. Nobody smiles."

Lizzie let out a good-natured groan. "Gah, your perpetual lack of enthusiasm. Surely there's things you like about Paris? Tell me a bit more, come on. What have you seen? Have you been to the catacombs? Have you climbed the Eiffel Tower? Have you eaten croissants near the banks of the Seine? Come on, let your favourite cousin live vicariously through you."

Ciel hadn't seen a lot of Paris. Not much at all, really. His double responsibilities of work and study left little time. 

At the end of last semester, he'd been studying at _Le Café Noir_ nearly every day for a while. The tea had been acceptable. The bustle and chatter and strangely elegant chaos of it had been strangely soothing. Ciel hadn't been there now in... what? Six weeks now?  
  
Not since he'd met Sebastian.

"I don't need to have seen it all. A man who's lived only a day could live a hundred years in prison," Ciel said, and stopped himself. 

Shit. Not only was that a quote, it wasn't the kind of thing that he should be saying --

"Sorry," he said hurriedly. "You're right. I'll try to explore more. So, what about you? How are you?"

"Ah, well, I'm… quite good." A pause. "Bored, though. And I can't wait until I fit into my cute dresses again. I'm big as a house now, and my ankles are so swollen I can barely walk, but eh -- that's how it is, right?"

There was a strain to her voice. That, or it was the connection. Or perhaps simply the method through which they were talking: something lost in that encoding of sound wave into electrical current and back into sound. 

Despite what she sounded like, she wasn't really here, and it wasn't really her voice he was hearing. Only a representation, filtered and converted and passed on in multiple steps, like a game of Chinese Whispers.

Ciel made a sound at the back of his throat. His finger looped around the cord of the phone. Twisted it, once, twice, until the black cord cut wreathed around him like dark talons.

"I suppose," Ciel said. "Please take care of yourself. I..." he trailed off. Tugged on the cord. "September. Right?"

"Yeah," she said. "Early September. We'll have to visit as soon as we can. As soon as he can. Or she. I'd love for it to be a girl, honestly." She laughed, but it sounded strained. "Girls' clothes are so much cuter, aren't they?"

"Hmm." Ciel waited. One second, two, and he said, "And, have you seen him?"

A second ticked by. Then another. "No, I haven't."

Ciel let go off the cord and gnashed his teeth. "I see."

"Ciel," she said. And he could almost see it, the crease in her brow. "Don't."

Ciel sucked in his breath. "Okay."

The rest of their conversation never strayed from the well-beaten paths of familiar discourse. He made comments he'd already made dozens of times, heard the answers and questions and comments he expected. Talking to Lizzie was nice. Simple. As comforting as reading a dog-eared favorite book with fainting ink and a musky smell whose most important passages you've long since committed to memory.

He urged her once more to take care of herself. To get adequate nutrition, take rest when she needed it. She promised she'd do it, but he thought he heard a shadow in her voice, and after, when she'd hung up, Ciel lost track of time.

When he burrowed his way back out of his reverie, he found himself slumped over his desk. Head nestled between his arms. The scent of wood in his nose. The clocks in his ears, tick tock tick like the march of an army of mechanical crickets.

He glanced over at one of them. Past four in the afternoon. A few more hours until dinner. His homework was done. He wouldn't have another extracurricular philosophy lesson until tomorrow.

On the days that the human Sebastian didn't come over, Ciel liked to go and keep the other Sebastian company.

Ciel found him in the garden today, dozing in the sun. The gardener greeted him stiffly, then turned around and went back to pruning a hedge. Ciel dropped into a crouch next to Sebastian and buried his hand in his fur.

The dog stirred and moved his paws. His eyelids fluttered.

Ciel eased himself down on the grass next to the dog.

The sun beat down at him. The cloying scent of flowers hung in the air. It was hot enough that the air seemed to pulse with it, a steady construction and release. A flickering. As if this were a movie, and the images stuttered into view with a second's delay, a stretch of nebulous nirvana in between each click of reality.

The dog's tail wagged lazily against the grass. His fur held the heat and nearly burned Ciel's palm. 

Ciel his fingers behind Sebastian's ears. "Good boy. You're a good boy, aren't you?"

Sebastian yipped, and closed his eyes.

Ciel liked dogs. Provide them with food and water and minimal affection and they think you are God.

Very much unlike the other Sebastian.

Ciel frowned.

That man was still an enigma.

Infuriating, that. People had never been particularly difficult to read, and Ciel had used his own systems to categorize them for as long as he could remember. Sebastian didn't fit in any one of them.

And it was certainly suboptimal that Ciel had allowed a man into his life whose very existence was a never-ending source of puzzlement.

 _Wrong_ , a voice inside Ciel said. _You didn't just allow it._

Ciel hadn't been wrong about his initial assessment of him, at least. Sebastian Michaelis was good at what he did. He had a sharp mind, a bottomless well of ready comebacks that sputtered forth on his quick tongue. Watchful eyes.

They'd argued over every detail of the lessons, at first.

How long they would spend debating each lesson. What ideas they would cover. The contents of Ciel's reading assignments. 

That last one had been settled only at the end of a very long debate. Ciel had questioned why he was expected not to read only a philosopher's main works but also his irrelevant and frequently maudlin epistemological correspondences with friends, mentors and lovers.  
  
Sebastian had only given him a thin smile and said, "Because nothing -- no thought, no man, and certainly no tightly interwoven worldview that entrenched a human being -- lives in a vacuum," and so Ciel had not just learned about philosophy but about history and linguistics and cultural peculiarities, as well. 

He’d learned to recognize them as a variety of threads that stitched thought to reality. 

And Sebastian had been right, in the end. As he had been about many things. 

Ever since they had settled the exact rules and standards, Ciel had been ready to admonish him, of course. If he ever forgot to dress well. If he was ever late. If he ever came ill-prepared. If he ever gave him nonsensical reading assignments. If he ever neglected to consider Ciel's arguments fully. 

But he never did. His lessons were well-planned. Interesting. At once pleasing and disturbing, just as any serious inquiry into the nature of reality should be.

Impeccable. Beyond reproach.

And that should make Ciel happy, of course it should. It was just as he had wanted. He'd hired Sebastian to do _exactly_ the things that he was doing.

Yet his presence frequently irritated Ciel. Needled at him. Pricked him, somewhere deep, with something nameless but gut-wrenching that told that _something was wrong_.

The man was a walking contradiction. He moved as if he were made of water: there was a flow to his every movement, the long, smooth sweeps of them. This way of shrugging languidly that was like waves rolling off of his shoulders. 

But his eyes were like fire. Something when Ciel looked at them, he could see something crackle in them, dark and quick like a charred wisp in a fireplace. 

And his smiles. There were so many of them: small, polite ones. Perfectly calibrated to the right altitude. And quick, unexpected ones, ones that twisted his mouth into a feline curve. And secretive ones, ones that barely pulled at the corners but made his eyes shine with something foreign, something…

Ciel shook his head.

The man was much like philosophy itself. Hard to understand, contradictory. And quite possibly an exercise in futility.

Gravel popped beneath wheels. A car rolled into the driveway beyond the hedges. Ciel remained crouched, and curled his fist in Sebastian's thick fur.

Footsteps. And then flashes of mauve and blue and black, followed by a flash of black hair. His aunt marched up ahead taking two steps at a time, and Mally hurried along behind her, carrying her purse.

Ciel thinned his lips and righted himself, patting off the grass from his knees. 

Hours passed. The sky expanded in the afternoon glow. The clocks kept ticking.

Ciel read in the library, curled up on the ottoman. The assignment for tomorrow's lesson: essays from Camus. Plays. Ciel read _Caligula_ , read the _Myth of Sisyphos_ , consulted his underlined and tattered copy of _The Stranger_. He swept his attention across the pages until it got tethered to a paragraph he'd underlined.

_Then he asked me whether I would be interested in changing my life. I replied that you can never really change your life and that, in any case, every life was more or less the same and that my life here wasn’t bad at all.(1)_

Ciel stared at the line and he must have thought of something. He couldn't remember what he'd been thinking about when he heard the knock.

Then a timid voice said, "Young master, I truly regret having to disturb you, but it-- it's time for dinner," and it was one of the maids -- Betty or Amanda or one of the French ones, maybe, and Ciel sighed and left the library and walked down the broad steps to the first floor and took a right and entered the dining hall.

Four pairs of eyes looked up at him. A sharp look from his aunt. A good-natured sweep of his uncle's. A moody look from his cousin. Only a glance from Mally, who placed a glass of water next to his aunt's plate. 

Aunt Frances thinned her lips into a tight line. "Oh, there you are," she said. "Am I to assume that you lost track of time again?"

Ciel threw a look at one of the clocks. Five minutes late.

There was no point in arguing. He'd learned that years ago.

"I'm sorry." He said it with as much sincerity as he knew it took not to provoke any further argument and as little as he could reasonably get away with.

He slid into his seat and stared at the plate in front of him. 

Ciel had arrived just in time for the appetizer. Beef carpacccio. Something foreign but not quite foreign enough to offend his family's sensibilities.

Liquid sparkled in a glass to his right. Clear water.

"Mally," Ciel said. "Bring me some wine, will you? We still have some of the _Chateau Haut Brion,_ don't we?"

His aunt cut in. "No. Don't, Mally, my dear, and as for you, Ciel -- you've had wine with dinner for the past four nights."

Ciel shouldn't argue. He really shouldn't.

He did it anyway. "So?" 

"It speaks of poor impulse control." His aunt's pointed face looked even horsier when she squinted. 

Ciel glanced over at Edward.

The boy had the decency to look uncomfortable while he glanced at his own wine glass. Uncle Alexis got very interested in cutting his meat. 

The screech of the knife against the plate stabbed into Ciel's temples.

"Fine," Ciel said. And began to cut his own meat and mechanically shoved a bite of it into his mouth.

Ciel knew what to do. His aunt was stricter about table manners than his parents had ever been, but it become automatic by now. He knew what not to say.

His relatives settled into a drizzle of conversation that turned into barely intelligible noise. Edward had spent the day playing football; a healthy glow still clung to his cheeks and shone out of his eyes. A smudge of mud marred the elbow on his jacket.

Ciel's eyes slid over to his aunt. She didn't seem to see it.

 _Tick-tock-tick_. Three clocks moved in unity. A fourth moved with a split second of delay. The whole sound stuttered. An arrhythmic heartbeat.

Over the months, Ciel had gotten rather adept at recognizing the signs that his input was requested. The main course arrived. Roast lamb with laver sauce. Ciel managed to get himself all the way through most of the main course with a count of less than twenty spoken words total.

The conversation sunk into background noise. They were talking about football, again. Edward had been made captain of his team a few weeks ago and it had been brought up nearly every evening since.

Aunt Frances dabbed at the side of her mouth with a handkerchief and chose this moment to address Ciel. "And what about you, Ciel? These philosophy lessons you've been taking. Are they useful?"

"Quite," Ciel said. He moved the meat around his plate.

 _How can you bring this slovenly man into my house_ ? she'd asked. _And look at his hair._

But by the time that she had first seen his tutor, the contract had already been signed. Ciel had placed his bet on his aunt's disgust for oath-breaking outweighing her contempt for the free-ranging style of Sebastian's curls. 

Ciel had chosen correctly.

Mally threw an interested look over at the table before she hurried away with Edward's plate. She was definitely someone who _more than_ tolerated his tutor.

She wasn't alone in this, either. Ciel had overheard the other servants talk about him more than once. Something about his charm, his wit, and on one unfortunate occasion, a whisper about the man's broad shoulders.

"Philosophy." His aunt's upper lip raised. "The study of the idle."

"It's a hobby, isn't it?" His uncle dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. "The boy works too hard not to be allowed a little inconsequential fun."

 _Fun_ , Ciel thought dully. _Is that what it is?_

His aunt waved her hand. "Ah. He's just like his father when he was young. Spending entire afternoons with books and his head in the clouds."

"I'm managing the majority of Funtom Co's dealings in France," Ciel said tightly. "Besides, you let Edward play football all day."

Edward sent him an affronted look. 

"Healthy mind in a healthy body," his aunt intoned. "Isn't that philosophy?"

Ciel swallowed down a retort along with another mouthful of lamb. Washed it down with water, and excused himself before dessert.

No one tried to stop him.

He was in his room before eight and sat down by the windowsill.

The moonlight turned the garden opaque and silvery.

She was almost full today. The moon. Bright enough that Ciel could see the parts of it that were still cast in shadow. It was ever-changing, passing from darkness into light in increments; measured changeability, in itself a constant of a sort. It remained the brightest spot in the sky throughout most of its metamorphosis, only disappearing in the night sky on its darkest day before it shone anew, reclaiming its rightful place as queen of the night sky.

How interesting. To remain in fluctuation, and yet in unquestionable power.

Anyone who had ever come before had seen the same moon. This was the moon that witnessed the laments of Plato, of Caesar. Of Debussy, and the music he composed in her honour.

The first notes started up in Ciel's head again. Perhaps its fame was justified. It wasn't a story, but a soundscape. A universal feeling painted with notes. 

Ciel shook his head to himself.

He walked over to his bookcase and retrieved one of the magazines.

The last part of his routine. It was better than being distracted all day, and he could sleep better after.

He never looked at the clocks, but he knew it was just past ten when he fell asleep.

\--

Ciel woke up with a start. Whatever dream he had melted like a waxen figurine in a hearth. He hadn't even seen the shape. 

Another morning. Another day.

Another song in his head: the Beatles today, _Norwegian Wood,_ and he had thought he'd heard the last of this band after leaving England.

The song left him by the time he walked into his office. A small mercy.

No notable calls today, either. A slightly smaller pile of newspapers and mail. It was a Friday; not even the servants felt like working today.

The numbers were swimming in front of his eyes by the time his lunch arrived. Salmon en papillote, followed by tea, and then more tea as noon drifted into afternoon.

Heat burned through the glass windows. Bars of light splayed across the carpet. Sweat dampened the small of Ciel's back. 

He got up and drew the curtains and when he sat back down, he found that he could no longer focus.

He took a walk around the garden then. The heat took his breath away.

He must have been doing something -- probably thinking -- but the next time he glanced at one of the omnipresent clocks, it was two-fifty in the afternoon already.

Sebastian would be here soon. Very soon. And before every single lesson that they shared, there was a deep, gut-wrenching feeling that thrummed in his stomach and made his throat constrict and he'd think --

 _You're not prepared_. 

Which was silly, of course, because Ciel always was. He'd finished all the required reading. Had even done a little extra. This silly notion was not held up by even a semblance of real-world evidence.

Ciel walked upstairs and into his study, pulled out the books he'd read, the essay he'd written, and waited.

He didn't have to wait for long until he heard them: _tap tap tap, click click click_. Footsteps down along the corridor that drew closer. Low voices. They rapidly got louder, and Ciel recognized them.

Sebastian and Mally. Talking. Laughing.

Ciel frowned.

This woman. Her and her strange bond with his aunt. His aunt despised even a hint of willfulness in anyone but this woman had an entire two rooms to herself in the East Wing. Calm and quiet and mostly serious -- unless she was with Sebastian.

Ciel could hear from in here now, her voice coated with saccharine, and she was probably doing the thing that women do when they toss back their heads and hood their eyelids.

Sebastian never seemed offended by her presence. Ciel had caught them smoking in the servant's quarter more than once, with Sebastian looking at Mally with a generous, but carefully distant smile on his face. Friendly but never warm. 

Ciel had never trusted her.

The voices drew closer and closer. Ciel could hear their conversation right through the door.

"Can you tell me again how to pronounce _dessous_?" she said.

And oh God, she was doing this demure, lady-like giggle thing as if it was in any way charming, Ciel had learned that word when he was eight, and it was time to say something, so Ciel called, "I can _hear_ you from in here. Sebastian, don't make me dock your pay for tardiness," and he heard a hush, a rustle, footsteps. Then a door creaked open, and Sebastian came in.

"I apologize," he said lightly. But he didn't bow before he walked into the room, his bag clenched beneath his arm. "A bit of socialising is the spark of life, they say."

It was deeply inappropriate to socialise with servants. Besides, the prattle of women was seldom worthy of contemplation.

Ciel knew better by now than to bring that up as an argument, so he motioned for Sebastian to take a seat. "Whatever. Let's get started."

His tutor's smile was minute this time; just a quiver at the corner of his lips. He dropped his bag on the table and, pulled out one of Ciel's essays, said, "Ah, just a moment," and sat down on the chair opposite of Ciel's, and started to scribble a note into the corner of the paper.

It was rare for Ciel to get a good look at his tutor.

Ciel let his eyes dart over to the man. The tie at his throat. The fine black jacket that stretched across his shoulders.

The man's eyes were drawn to the paper on the desk now. Strands of black hair fell down along his cheek and dangled by his chin. Concentration creased his pale face.

Then he looked up and smiled, and he said, "I just had to add a few additional remarks."

Ciel reached for the paper.

"Ah-ah." Sebastian pushed it out of Ciel's reach. "Not until the end of the lesson, remember?"

"Of course," Ciel said. He felt his upper lip quiver slightly. Another thing they'd agreed on. 

"So," Sebastian said. He folded his hands on the table and looked at Ciel. "Absurdity." And he gave Ciel an expectant look.

Ciel met his look evenly.

And cleared his throat. "Right. We start from the definition, correct? The conflict that arises between a conscious mind looking for meaning and a universe which is inherently meaningless and indifferent to the woes of the individual."

"Very well," Sebastian said. "And how do you think this idea arose?"

"In our post-theocentric world, meaning is no longer externally imposed by a God or a church. The idea that there is no inherent meaning to any individual of a species of advanced apes living on a green rock in the middle of the universe appears to have been quite revolutionary around the turn of the century."

"Hmm." A slow smile undulated on Sebastian's lips. "I sense a 'but' incoming."

"It seems to ignore that there is a very common source of meaning that exists outside of the sphere of religion," Ciel said. "Many people would argue that the inherent and most natural meaning of human life was family."

"Oh." Sebastian raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Reproduction, essentially?"

"I suppose," Ciel said.

Sebastian's smirk was snake-quick. "Sex, is it?"

Ciel's hand twitched in irritation. His tutor was having too much fun. "Stop it. That's not what I'm saying. That is not the essence of it any more than chewing is the essence of nourishment."

Sebastian shrugged. "All right, then. Let's pretend for a moment that this isn't the natural, logical end if we spin the idea further. Family, yes? Do you not think that this is only widening the scope without getting any closer to providing a satisfying answer to the problem of an indifferent universe? If there isn't any meaning to the life of an individual, why would there be any meaning to the lives of two individuals? To an entire family of individuals?" A shrug. "Nothing multiplied by nothing is still nothing, as you undoubtedly covered in math at _le primaire."_

Ciel raised an eyebrow. "Following that chain of nihilism, do you mean to say that the survival of the human race itself is nothing?"

Another shrug. Fluid as a wave through his tutor's body. "Ah, the survival of the race. Now _that's_ a noble goal. _D'accord, d'accord…_ but then… what makes _humans_ so special?" Sebastian let the question hang in the air. His eyes found Ciel's. "Because we're smart?" A quick roll of his dark eyes. "At least a third of humanity is dumb enough that they could probably be convinced that oxygen was optional."

Ciel watched the man coldly.

A small smile wound around Sebastian's lips. "And _locusts_ are evidently just as interested in the survival of their own species as humanity is."

Ciel raised an eyebrow. "You really mean to say that humans and locusts are comparable?"

"There are differences, of course," Sebastian said. "But this isn't about my personal opinion. We've been over this, my dear student."

Ciel swallowed bitterly.

They _had_ covered this, indeed. A teacher's role was to be impartial. "A teacher is good when the student never figures out their personal opinion," Sebastian had told him. The teacher's personal beliefs should not be of any consequence in the classroom setting. He existed only as a vehicle for the student's opinions to crystallize.

"You see, I speak to serve you," Sebastian had said, but somehow he'd said it in a way that had made Ciel want to punch him.

And the man did this a lot. These shocking ideas. Always cloaked as a suggestion, a mere possibility. And maybe they were. But the deliberate provocation shone out of his eyes.

Ciel's fingers twitched on the table.

There _was_ a meaning to the survival of the species. Ciel knew it. 

But he realized with a feeling like dangling above a yawning abyss that he had no idea _how_ he knew, or how to convincingly articulate his belief. It was a feeling more than knowledge. Something that transcended words, lived in the blood as much as it did in the mind.

"A noble sense of loyalty to the species is a common human sentiment," Sebastian said. "Yet a biologically natural sentiment is merely that; the question of meaning is another entirely. And what you are feeling right now is perhaps exactly what we're talking about: the dissonance between the yearning of man and the silence of the universe."

"Perhaps we just aren't listening hard enough," Ciel said. "Perhaps we don't have the equipment to pick up on the signals."

Sebastian leaned back in the chair. "Ah. Perhaps, of course. You are still young and hopeful, I see. Yet the acceptance of life's meaninglessness is a necessary presupposition for the problem of absurdity, which we are discussing today. So let's assume for a moment that you agree with the premise in order to progress within the discussion. Life is meaningless, as far as we know -- so long as our technology is not advanced enough to decipher the sounds of the universe, perhaps -- and a dissonance exists between this reality and the human mind. Is suicide a logical solution, then?"

Ciel bit his lower lip. _Young and hopeful_. This prick. 

"It's a solution in the same way that it is one for a mild headache," Ciel said blandly. "Suicide is cowardly. If, indeed, life is meaningless, then one must stand up to this reality."

Sebastian hummed. "And fulfill their duties, I take it?"

Why did it sound like Sebastian was mocking him?  
  
"Indeed," Ciel said darkly. 

"Even if that duty is to push a rock up a hill and have it roll down again and again for all eternity?" Sebastian asked.

Ah. Of course. "The story of Sisyphos," Ciel said. "Yes. The rock is still his. There's no inherent meaning to pushing up a rock that is only doomed to fall down over and over again. But by choosing to do it anyway it becomes his destiny."

"Interesting," Sebastian said. "Do you really believe that?"

Ciel hesitated. "Given the premise, it's the only rational approach."

"Given the premise," Sebastian repeated with a smile. "And what if his obsession with the stone precludes him from providing for his family, hmm?"

Ciel waited in silence. He had no answer.

Sebastian smiled. "Let's move on."

He asked about Ciel's reading assignments instead. Which of them Ciel had enjoyed the most ( _The Stranger_ ), how he found the writing style (interesting but too vague in parts) and how what he'd felt during the hours of reading (calm curiosity).

They discussed the wider context of Camus' ideas. Kierkegaard's _Fear and Trembling_ , and David Hume's judgement of life as a series of disjointed impressions. American _noir_ novels. Nietzsche. And Camus' own background, his experience as a French-Algerian, and the deep wounds that the surreal experience of war occupied France had left on him and his contemporaries.

Interesting, all in all. Even if Sebastian had to throw in an entirely unnecessary anecdote about the young philosopher's prolific love life.

But Ciel lost focus at some point during their discussion. The heat beat through the drawn shades. When Ciel rubbed across his brows, his fingers came away wet with sweat.

Ciel glanced at Sebastian. The bastard looked as composed as ever. Not a hair out of place. Not a blotch of sweat on his uniform. Or on his smooth, finely-boned face. His dark eyes kept their watchful glint.

Ciel was looking at the front of his shirt when the man's words snapped him out of his reverie.

"Well, that's almost it." His tutor nodded at one of the clocks. "We should finish the lesson soon."  
  
Their gazes locked. Ciel shifted in his seat. "Right."

"I'd like to return to the topic we discussed at the beginning of this lesson," Sebastian said. "About the alternatives to absurdity. There are some I didn't mention. And there's one that correlates to... what we talked about on the day we met. At the café."

Ciel looked at Sebastian.  
  
Clocks ticked. His heel clicked against the floor when he rearranged his legs. His breath came out hard and labored.

It was too damn _hot_. 

Then the neurons connected in Ciel's head. His shoulders relaxed. "Ah," he said. "Phenomenology."

The smile that spread on Sebastian's face this time was evidently _pleased_. "Hmm. Did you figure out what the argument might be?"

Ciel licked his lips. "I suppose that one could argue that the world is filled with meaning through the things in them, and their subjective interpretation in the mind of the individual."

Sebastian nodded. "Hmm. Continue."

Ciel hesitated. "Well… a trip to a foreign country is not merely physically moving your body across borders and eating and sleeping somewhere else than you're used to. The context of travel gives it meaning. Or how this lesson…" He hesitated. "It isn't merely two people using their vocal chords to produce sound while facing each other sitting on wooden constructions. It's a lesson."

And moonshine would never have been immortalized in music if people hadn't been around to bathe in her light.

"Ah." Sebastian drew out the sound and the moment right along with it. _"Très bien."_

And Ciel felt something. It raced across his skin and curled in the pit of his stomach, and tangled there. Pleasurably.

Pride, was it?

"Another famous example is that a football match isn't merely a group of men in shorts chasing a spherical object. It is only through someone else watching it that it attains meaning. It becomes sports."

"If you were the sort of person who cared about _sports_ ," Ciel said dismissively.

Sebastian chuckled. "Of course. We'll stick to the far more convincing example of our lessons, won't we?"

Ciel raised his chin and narrowed his eyes.

"It's certainly a compelling idea," Sebastian said thoughtfully. "The meaning of life found through the experience of living within it. The influence of phenomenological thinking is evident in much of the works we've discussed and will continue to discuss."

"The focus on the minutiae of everyday life," Ciel said. "But there's a disgust for it. An abhorrence."

" _C'est ça. C'est l'anomie_."

"Anomie?"

"Indeed," Sebastian said. "Anomie is a kind of condition of feeling cut off from others. Listless, you could say? Alienated."

"Like an outsider," Ciel said. "Or a foreigner."

"Or like both," Sebastian said. " _Un étranger_."

Ciel breathed in. And out. And met his tutor's eyes. 

The smile that pulled at Sebastian's lips was slow. Delicate. Like the slow pull on a string that unties a bow.

"I have a proposal for you," the man said. 

"A proposal, you say." 

"Yes," Sebastian said, and he got to his feet so quickly that Ciel barely had time to blink at him. "But first, I'll have a walk in the garden. Would you join me?"

Ciel stared at Sebastian.

Then caught himself. Bit down on his lower lip. "Why can't you say it here?"

"I _could,_ " Sebastian said, and his teeth glinted with his smile. "But I can't smoke in here, can I?"

Nasty habit. How much did this man spend on cigarettes per month?

The chair screeched against the floor when Ciel got to his feet. "Fine. Let's go downstairs."

The main hall was cool and blissfully empty.

Walking outside felt like walking right into a wet blanket.

Cicadas trilled in the grass.

Sebastian stepped out next to him and reached into his pocket for the lighter. Out of the corner of his eye, Ciel watched him light a cigarette.

The man's dark eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment, then turned his face to the side, tilted it up, and exhaled slowly.

And this was something else that Ciel found curious about Sebastian: he smoked like it was an art form rather than a rancid addiction.

Ciel had never smoked. Some of the other boys back in school had, though, and he'd watched them sometimes. How they stood around in hushed circles and sucked hurriedly, joylessly on their cigarettes. 

Sebastian always breathed in deeply. Sucked the smoke deep into his lungs, and then released it slowly, sensually, reveling in the morbid beauty of it.

"Shall we go on?" Sebastian asked, and slinked away.

"What --" 

Ciel broke himself off. Snapped his mouth shut. 

Launched into a short sprint and caught up to Sebastian. He looked up at him with what he hoped showed full contempt.

Sebastian didn't look down at Ciel.

Not for the first time, Ciel felt a burning desire to be taller. How satisfying would it be if he could look _down_ at this arrogant Frenchman?

"Oi," Ciel said. "I know what you're doing."

"Do you," Sebastian said. Not a question. And he kept walking. Around a row of hedges toward the central piece of the garden: a fountain. A statue of Artemis stood tall and proud in the middle of it. Water erupted in a gleaming stream from her vase and gathered in a glittering pool around her feet. 

Delicate drops of water sprayed Ciel's face when they drew near. Sebastian sat down at the edge of the fountain, and patted the spot next to him with an expectant look on his face.

His cigarette was dangling between his lips. He pressed it between two fingers, took one final puff, and reached behind himself to extinguish it in the water. "Come on, Ciel. Sit down."

 _Ciel_ . He wanted to protest, but, ah -- he couldn't, he _couldn't_. Sebastian was only bound to higher forms of respect when they were in the office, and treated him as a student in the classroom, and here, well --

Oh.

The office and the study. Those were the only two places that they had been in together for the past six weeks. Since Ciel had gone to the _Café L'Esprit_ to pick him up.

There weren't any rules here. Or rather, Ciel hadn't created any. Not yet.

The flow of the water was a rush in Ciel's ears. He sat down next to Sebastian. The stone felt pleasantly cool against his thigh.

"How often do you ever just come and sit here?" Sebastian suddenly asked. His eyes were trained on the sky. "How often do you sit here and take in all the impressions?"

 _Never_.

"Sometimes."

Sebastian didn't answer.

And the rush of the water grew louder. The sun burned onto his face, but the moist spray of the fountain felt good against his back, the nape of his neck. Cool. A relief.

"Now tell me," Ciel demanded.

Sebastian looked at him over his shoulders, and he looked like he was enjoying this far too much.

"Hmm. What --"

"Don't play dumb with me."

"Ah. Very well." Sebastian closed his eyes and threw back his head, his face turned toward the sun. 

He had a beautiful profile. Of course he did. And sunlit hair, an irritatingly sharp jaw, and something filthy tucked in the crease of his smile.

"You haven't seen a lot of Paris, have you?" Sebastian asked.

Ciel bit his lower lip. "I've lived here for almost half a year already."

"Let me guess." And the single eye that Ciel could see opened and rolled over to look at him. "You go from your place to university, and back to your place…"

"You forget that I am responsible for dozens of cafés and tea houses in the city and that I can't trust anyone else to check up on them," Ciel grit out.

"Oh, of course." Sebastian bit out a laugh and turned to face Ciel. "So, your place, university, and the inside of your car followed by the stuffy interior of cafés and tea houses. Am I close?"

Ciel kept his face entirely blank. "I'm _busy."_

Sebastian smiled, and made eye contact.

The man's eyes glistened. A bright auburn in the light. And he said, "Go out into town with me, please."

Ciel forgot to breathe for a second.

Then remembered. Pinned the man with what he hoped was a glare. He raised an eyebrow and kept his voice perfectly cold. "Elaborate."

"Go experience Paris with me." Sebastian made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Let's venture forth. Let's do as the existentialists did. You wanted to know what made the city breathe, right?"

Ciel stared at his tutor. "You mean _right now?"_

Sebastian gave a shrug. "Eh, why not?"

"No." Ciel said it with finality. He felt his shoulder go rigid. "Absolutely not. I have -- things planned this lesson. You can't just come and ask me out of the blue if I want to go on an excursion with you like --"

"Okay, then. So tomorrow?" Sebastian said and flashed Ciel another smile and Ciel looked at him and opened his mouth and closed it again.

"I'm not going to pay you for an entire day," he bit out.

"I'd expect nothing of the sort from you. I know how meticulous you are about your accounts. Let's consider it… on the house?"

"You can't say that in this context." 

"Hah. I suppose you can't say that for my kind of services, then?" A shrug. "A free lesson, then. How about it? I've lived in this city for thirteen years now. You can't find a better tour guide anywhere." 

"I pay you to make me think," Ciel said. "Not to take me to the Eiffel Tower or whatever."

"There are things only the senses know," Sebastian said. A pause, and his voice lowered. "Only the body."

Ciel opened his mouth to say something.

Closed it again. Considered.

"Let me think about it," Ciel said. And looked away.

He let his gaze trail over the lush green grass. Over the hedges, boxwood and holly and yew. And down to his feet, pressed together tightly. His shoes gleamed in the sunlight.

And he looked at his own hand. Splayed out on the stone. Then at Sebastian's. Only a few centimeters away from his own. The man had long, elegant fingers.

Sebastian moved them away to dip them into the water and Ciel watched as his hand slid through the water in slow circles. The water curled around him, as if he was wrapping it around his finger.

Then Sebastian rubbed his fingers against his other hand's wrist, and sighed with satisfaction.

Ciel looked away.

But he still felt his tutor's eyes on him.

"Hot, isn't it?" Sebastian said it softly. "End of July. Paris is on fire these days." 

Ciel heard the splash of his tutor reaching back into the water. Then he felt a dry hand pulling on his forearm.

Fingertips danced across Ciel's wrist. Cool Wet.

"Rubbing cool water onto your wrists is one of the most effective ways to cool down when you're hot." Sebastian looked at him intently.

Ciel could do nothing but look back.

"Right here," his tutor said. "Right across the pulse point."

The slick finger pressed down against Ciel's wrist. And he felt his own heart beat, _thump thump thump_ , a rapid tremor against the man's fingers.

Sebastian looked at him and his voice changed, got lower somehow, and he said, "Feels good, doesn't it?" and --

Fuck. It did.

Ciel stared at him, open-mouthed.

And he felt something scissor through him. Hot, cutting. A crackle of shame and fury. 

He snatched away his hand. He resisted the urge to cradle his wrist as if it had been broken.

He pinned Sebastian with a look. "Stop."

Surprise spilled on Sebastian's face and spread slowly. "I apologize," he said. "Was it not a relief?"

Relief. That was much too accurate.

"Don't -- don't just touch me like that," Ciel said. He hated how brittle that sounded. The rush of the fountain was too loud.

Sebastian held up his palms. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to ease your suffering." He lowered his hands. "I see you're not quite ready to relieve yourself of it."

Ciel blinked. What the hell was this man saying? 

It didn't make any sense. It --

"Well." And Sebastian straightened his spine and reached up toward the sky. He stretched out his arms, then let them drop and half-turned to Ciel. 

He was smiling. Again. Of course.

Did this man think that smiles were appropriate for any situation? Jokes, and he smiled. Cryptic comments, and he smiled. He looked at Ciel, and he smiled.

As if the entire world existed only for his amusement.

"All right, then," Sebastian said. "Does two in the afternoon tomorrow work for you?"

Ciel's thoughts ground to a halt.

Sebastian braced his elbows against his thighs. "Let's meet at the café where we met. It's more central. Easier to get to interesting places from there. What do you say?"

And two was no good, of course. At two, he would just have finished lunch, and he would be in the middle of his studies. He'd wanted to finish reading a chapter in his Macroeconomics textbook then. It wasn't a good time.

But neither was ten, or twelve, or four, or any other time.

"Okay." It felt like somebody else was saying it.

"You'll be there?"

What, did he doubt Ciel's word? _"Yes."_

And Sebastian nodded, and said something that Ciel drowned out, and the next thing that Ciel picked up on was Sebastian saying that he would let himself out, and then the man leapt to his feet and he turned to leave and took a few steps forward and then turned around once more to look at Ciel.

Ciel blinked. "What now?"

"I suggest you go back in soon," Sebastian said. A hint of canines flashed between his teeth when he smiled. "You look just a little... spent."

\--

Ciel returned to his study.

The essay that Sebastian had returned to him still lay untouched on the table.

Ciel snatched it up. Sebastian had drawn a little smiling face beneath the note.

 _Another good essay,_ it said. _Your criticism of Heidegger's concept of being-in-the-world is as vicious as it is well-articulated. As usual, you present your point with so much eloquence and fervor that you almost succeed in hiding your inexperience. A lesser man might be fooled._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1)Camus, Albert. The Outsider (Penguin Modern Classics) (page 38). Penguin Books Ltd. Kindle-Version. 
> 
> Great to see you again for this chapter! :) A lot has happened since I posted the last chapter!
> 
> Amanitus and nighttime_tea_party were both sweet enough to make absolutely banging fanart for this story! So check out their pictures here, if you haven't seen them already:
> 
> [Amanitus' Sebastian](https://amanitus.tumblr.com/post/633533753045745664/1-take-one-horny-french-bastard-sebastian)
> 
> [nighttime_tea_party's Sebastian](https://nighttime-tea-party.tumblr.com/post/634058684597780480/sebastian-with-curly-hair-the-way-i-imagine-him)
> 
> Please go and leave them love for their wonderful work! 
> 
> And, have a little sneak peek at Chapter 5:
> 
> \----
> 
> A plaza opened up before them.
> 
> A thick net of cafés and bistros with striped awnings ringed the square. A Gothic church throned square in the middle of it, surrounded by thronging groups of tourists and hordes of pigeons.
> 
> Sebastian ignored the church. He aimed for one of the corners of the plaza. 
> 
> Ciel blinked. A cluster of people contegrated around a variety of stalls. A flea market, then? 
> 
> They got closer. No.
> 
> "An art market," Ciel commented.
> 
> Beret-wearing men sat around portraits, paintings, and drawings. Some were haggling with customers, others sat aside and drew them, and still others stood to the side and laughed out ringlets of smoke.
> 
> They only glanced briefly at Ciel when he entered the market along with Sebastian.
> 
> Ciel looked around. Landscapes dominated the offerings: sweeping hills, dense forests, tranquil seas. And urban paintings -- of Paris, naturally -- with its narrow streets, and cobble-stoned Medieval roads. The spindly shape of the Eiffel Tower. Sacré Coeur and Notre Dame.
> 
> And then, as they moved deeper into the market, paintings of others dames as well, in various -- or, really, _all_ \-- states of undress."
> 
> \----
> 
> Chapter 5 will be split in 2 parts. The first part will be posted on **Saturday, December 12th.**
> 
> I'm absolutely dying to hear your thoughts on this chapter, though! Did you like Ciel's POV? Is he as you expected or different? I eagerly soak up your feedback! <3
> 
> 'Till next time!


	6. Chapter 5 Part 1: Le Ciel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Paris,_ Ciel thought sourly. _And what's so special about you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oonf. This chapter was pushed back twice, I seriously underestimated how busy I'd be over this month. And also how much work this chapter would take. I'm quite happy with it, though! Please enjoy!
> 
> The song that is stuck in Ciel's head here is _Sous le ciel de Paris_ , a famous French song which has been covered by at least a dozen artists. Among them [Edith Piaf](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKEzDfFiRBs) and [Yves Montand.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LACZU05vmbk)
> 
> I recommend listening to the song to get in the mood for this chapter! 
> 
> Anyway. Allons-y, my unbridled francophilia.
> 
> thanks to Amanitus for beta'ing. Youse a babe.

_Paris_ , Ciel thought sourly. _And what's so special about you?_

This city had enthralled many artists, intellectuals and writers. Vincent van Gogh had called it a hotbed of ideas. Ernest Hemingway claimed the _vie parisienne_ stayed with you forever. _Nothing is more tragic, nothing is more sublime_ , said Victor Hugo. And even Nietzsche had found rare words of praise: an artist had no home anywhere in Europe but in Paris.

Ciel thought of the many songs written about it. The ardent compositions, the airy chansons.

He stood in front of the café in the middle of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, out on the curb in between cigarette butts and piles of dog shit, and wondered when he'd be struck by his own kind of divine inspiration.

People passed by on the sidewalk. Casually-dressed students and suit-wearing _monsieurs_ and slender _madames_ with their hair done up in beehives or framing their faces in pixie cuts. Most seemed busy, head held high, spine straight, marching down with the street with a nearly identical look of weary surfeit on their faces.

The sunlight cast leaf-shaped shadows on the ground. It was hot today, but not as infernally hot as it had been lately.

Ciel glanced down at his watch. Ten minutes past two.

Sebastian was late. Of course he was.

Did the man have any concept at all of how much revenue Ciel was missing out on every minute, every second, while he was waiting here for him to show up instead of being back at home doing something useful?  
  
Vespas and beaten-up cars roared down the road. Fragments of rapid French conversations punctured his focus. Exhaust pipes sputtered.

A song stirred in the depths of Ciel's mind. The same one he'd woken up with today.

_Sous le ciel de Paris, s'envole une chanson…_

Ciel looked up to see Sebastian pass by on a bicycle in a splash of black. A thin red scarf streamed behind him like a banner. 

The song stuttered and halted in Ciel's mind.

Sebastian flashed Ciel a smile, leapt off his bicycle, and bent to secure it to a street light. 

Ciel's eyes dropped to the tattered combat boots on the man's feet, then swung up along his black woollen trousers to his black short-sleeved shirt and the scarf, stark and red like a gushing wound. Thin as a tissue, entirely impractical. 

The man _obviously_ had no idea about what it means to be losing thousands of pounds an hour. "You're late."

"Oh, am I?" Sebastian shook his watch into view. "Ah. I'm terribly sorry. You know how it is with traffic. Drivers hate pedestrians and pedestrians hate drivers, and both of them are united in their hatred for cyclists." A stray lock of hair tumbled down the man's forehead. He tossed it back with a shake of his head. "Have you been waiting long?"

 _Goddamn,_ Ciel thought. A trick question. He couldn't very well say 'yes,' because that meant admitting that he'd been there 10 minutes early, and he couldn't say 'no' because that would absolve Sebastian of his guilt.

Ciel never got to pick between these answers.

Sebastian was _there_ suddenly. There, right in front of Ciel, leaning in, and his cheeks were pressed to Ciel's and his lips were by his ears. He made a low kissing noise.

A shock like an electric impulse shot through Ciel's body. 

Sebastian withdrew his face. Hovered before him, right in front of Ciel's face, inches apart, and he was going to do the same thing on Ciel's other cheek --

Ciel grasped the man's arm. Dug his fingers into the black wool. "Don't do that."

Sebastian stopped. His eyes swept across Ciel's face. 

Then he straightened his spine and folded his face into a look of control. "It's a very common greeting here in France."

"Certainly not between employer and employee." 

"True." A private smile twitched on Sebastian's lips. "But that isn't what we are today, is it?"

It would almost have been worth it to pay Sebastian for his time today just so he couldn't say that. "I don't want you to do this again," Ciel said. "Understood?"

"Of course." Tightly. "I will not greet you like this again."

Ciel frowned. Something nameless needled at him. A premonition, maybe.

Ciel shook his head. He'd have time to think about this _later._ For now, he was here, out on the streets. Committed to spending the entire day with this man.

It hadn't been difficult to arrange, at least. A cultural festival going on at university. Yes, sometimes this happened even during summer vacation. His aunt had been snapping orders at servants, preparations for Edward's twenty-first birthday party. She'd barely glanced at Ciel when he told her.

Ciel padded down his shirt and cleared his throat, careful to show as little enthusiasm as possible when he said, "Let's just get going."

They started walking.

Bakeries and cafés lined the cobble-stoned street. The scent of freshly-baked croissants hung in the air.

Ciel knew this area.

It wasn't far from university. He'd had a few drinks with fellow students around here before, at the beginning of the semester. The first week or two. It had been exhausting, draining, and devoid of meaning. In what had been a perfectly rational decision, Ciel had stopped going out soon after.

Sebastian took a turn and led Ciel down a street he hadn't been to before. 

Ciel had to walk fast to keep up with the man's long legs. "Where are we going?"

"Just trust me," Sebastian said. "I know the whole city like the inside of my pocket."

"I'm not even convinced you know what's in your pocket _right now."_

"Well," Sebastian said. "Cigarettes and a lighter. Possibly two. Maybe a crumpled up receipt? Ah. And my keys, of course."

"That inspires great confidence."

"Pfft." Sebastian shrugged. "You English and your irony. Perhaps that's why we get along so well."

They moved out of the shade and into the bright glare of the sun.

The air wrapped around Ciel like the sweaty embrace of an aging relative.

He couldn't hold back a huff. "Seriously. Where are we going?"

"So impatient." Sebastian gave a theatrical sigh. They rounded a corner, and Sebastian raised both arms. _"Voil_ _à_ _."_

A plaza opened up before them.

A thick net of cafés and bistros with striped awnings ringed the square. A Gothic church throned square in the middle of it, surrounded by thronging groups of tourists and hordes of pigeons.

Sebastian ignored the church. He aimed for one of the corners of the plaza. 

Ciel blinked. A cluster of people contegrated around a variety of stalls. Was it a flea market?

No.

"An art market."

Beret-wearing men sat around portraits, paintings, and drawings. Some were haggling with customers, others sat aside and drew them. Still others stood to the side and laughed out ringlets of smoke.

Ciel followed Sebastian down a narrow path. Landscapes dominated the offerings: sweeping hills, dense forests, tranquil seas. And urban paintings -- of Paris, naturally -- with its narrow streets, and cobble-stoned Medieval roads. The spindly shape of the Eiffel Tower. Sacré Coeur and Notre Dame.

And then, as they moved deeper into the market, paintings of others _dames_ as well, in various -- or, really, _all_ \-- states of undress.

Ciel felt a stirring in his stomach that leapt up to clog at the back of his throat. It took Ciel a second to identify the feeling: being scandalised.

Paintings of bright-eyed maidens with small apple-sized breasts. Paintings of old whores with twin bagpipes on their chests. Drawings of women leaning back on their elbows and gazing at the viewer from beneath half-hooded eyes. Drawings of women standing up. Drawings of dark triangles that led to clenched white thighs. 

And opened ones.

Ciel looked away.

"Well?" Sebastian slowed down. "Oh. I'm sorry." The bastard didn't look sorry at all. "A little shocked, perhaps?"

Ciel pressed his lips together tightly. "No." 

Sebastian gave him a slow once-over. "Really? Not at all?"

"You may find this hard to believe, but I've looked at naked women before," Ciel said coldly. "I'm more concerned about this peculiar French idea to turn it into a public bonding experience."

"Ah." Sebastian smiled. "But every artist's underlying challenge is to reveal the essence of a thing by portraying its surface. And what gets closer to the human soul than the thing around it?" 

"That sounds suitably profound," Ciel said. He pointed at a painting of a woman lying spread-eagled on a bed. "But I'm pretty sure it wasn't her soul that the artist meant to capture here." 

Sebastian shrugged. "Well, a delicious soul might be found in peculiar places."

Ciel stared at his tutor, unimpressed. "What _is_ it with you French and sex?" 

"Ah. That's a good question."

"And?"

"A few reasons, probably. Catholicism and its deep appreciation for the sensual. The legacy of our aristocracy. The libertinage, their dissertations on the vagaries of sex."

"Or simply the vulgarity of it," Ciel said.

Sebastian shot Ciel an openly amused look. "Ah. Perhaps you're just too literal, my English lord?"

"No. No, I'm pretty sure you're just full of shit."

Sebastian's smile dropped. "I _am_ an artist, you know."

"Among other things."

Sebastian's face darkened.

Ciel met his eyes openly. He felt his own skin tightening across his face. He was smiling. Grinning.

Sebastian was the first to look away. "All right. Come on." He turned on his heel and rushed down along the main path.

Ciel blinked. "What --"

But the man was already too far ahead, a slim dark silhouette that threaded seamlessly into the crowd. 

Ciel grumbled beneath his breath. Was the man going to make him _run?_

He burst into a quick jog, caught up with Sebastian, and was just about to repeat the question indignantly when Sebastian approached a man standing next to a small gallery.

"Jacques," Sebastian said _._ And followed it with a barrage of rapid words that Ciel could barely understand.

Ciel sidled up next to Sebastian, doing his best to look appropriately bored.

This Jacques was a tall, lanky man with the features and skin tone of the Middle East. His eyes were round and dark like black olives, and he glanced down at Ciel and said what Ciel was pretty sure translated to, "He's smaller than I imagined."

Aha.

Ciel glared at Sebastian with what he hoped encompassed the full extent of his displeasure. "And he's chattier than I imagined."

"Eh. I like to talk about a challenge." Sebastian exchanged a few more sentences with Jacques, and then motioned for Ciel to step toward the gallery. "Anyway. What do you think?" 

And Ciel looked.

Dozens of paintings were lined up in rows. Kaleidoscopic patterns spiraled across the entire array of canvases. The paintings looked like they came straight out of San Francisco garage's poster sale.

Ciel felt Sebastian's eyes nudge against the side of his face. Waiting.

"This is psychedelic art, isn't it?" Ciel said. Or 'hippie things,' as his father would have called it.

Sebastian hummed, and pointed at a painting to Ciel's left. "This one's mine."

Ciel sucked in his breath in surprise. Released it slowly. 

Squinted at the painting.

There was only one word in his mind.

 _Blue_.

An ocean blue background. An electric blue spiral in the middle, with light blue ringles wavering around it. Dark blue fractals covered the entire image like a delicate wallpaper.

Sebastian was right next to him. Close. "What is the essence beyond this painting's surface, hmm?"

Comfort. That's the feeling he got from the image. And the vague sense of a theme. 

Infinity.

"Water."

 _"C'est ça."_ A smile broke on Sebastian's lips, bright and open and unlike any Ciel had ever seen on him. "You understand."

Ciel swallowed. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Something shone out of Sebastian's eyes, something so honestly grateful that it chased the feeling of comfort right off.

"I guess," Ciel pressed out.

Sebastian held his eyes for a few more moments. 

Ciel saw something shift in them.

Sebastian nodded toward the path. "Shall we see the rest of the market?"

Ciel fell into step next to his tutor. It only occurred to him a few seconds later that he hadn't even questioned it.

Silence settled between them.

More landscapes. Monet prints of rip-offs. Impressionistic landscapes, and psychedelic ones that would have fit right in with Jacques' gallery. The smell of paint and parchment hung in the air.

"So?" Sebastian tilted his head. "What do you think? Of this market, I mean."

"Well," Ciel said, slowly. "It's interesting enough. I didn't know there was this kind of market so close to university. The quality is adequate, although there's a lot of prints of famous art, and the original art on offer varies widely in quality. As is to be expected from amateurs."

"Hmm. A boy of discerning taste, I see."

 _"Man,"_ Ciel corrected stiffly. 

"Hmm." Sebastian squinted. Lowered his chin to indulge in a private smile. "Ah. Of course--" and he took a step to the right and came to a halt. "A man. In spirit, if not by law. You're quite right, of course. There's no natural law that dictates that the age of majority must be twenty-one. It could just as easily be sixteen, or eighteen, or, heck, why not twenty-three? It's nothing more than an approximation of estimated average age of maturity applied indiscriminately to all individuals."

Ciel stared at Sebastian. He chewed on his lower lip. 

This man. His bloody words. So precise. Ciel could argue against them, but it would not be in his best interest. Not in this case. 

Ciel noticed he had been staring into the space somewhere in front of Sebastian's chest.

He swiftly looked to the painting right next to Sebastian.

Oh.

[An oil painting](https://d3d00swyhr67nd.cloudfront.net/w1200h1200/collection/WAR/LEAMG/WAR_LEAMG_3-001.jpg). Two young men were lounging in the sand on a beach on the English coast line. They had their backs turned toward the viewer, looking out at the sparkling, foam-tipped sea. One wore white trousers. The other was naked, and Ciel's eyes were naturally drawn along the lines of the torso to the subtle curves of his bottom.

Ciel could almost feel the salt-drenched breeze.

And there was something else to the painting. Something in how close the two youths sat to each other, the ease of their body language. 

Intimacy.

Ciel's stomach churned once. 

He became very aware of the sun beating down at him. The heat pressed down on him. On his face, his neck.

"It's hot. Let's get going." Ciel bristled past Sebastian. They walked down along the path until they reached the last stall. They spilled back out into the plaza, and it was only then that Ciel felt like he could --

Breathe. Breathe again.

There was something strange in Sebastian's eyes. A small smile played on his lips. "Let's go to the _jardin du luxembourg_ , hmm?"

And ah, a garden. Open space, flowers, grass, trees. There was no reason to say no to that. 

They passed monuments, bakeries, rose-peddling buskers. Antique bookstores and quaint little churches. Sebastian provided a running commentary of anecdotes, and Ciel listened, grateful for the opportunity to stay silent himself.

Ciel's mind buzzed along.

 _Elle est née d'aujourd'hui dans le c_ _œur d'un garçon._

Their soles slapped against the stone steps leading up to the garden. The song dimmed in Ciel's head.

The garden stretched out into all directions in lush rolls of greens. Sparks of color dotted the tapestry. The scent of flowers and grass hung in the air. Sebastian spoke to him in his quiet teacher's voice, about the history of the gardens, and Ciel listened to tales of the Medici while letting his eyes flicker across the lawns and flowerbeds.

Something struck Ciel as different from the many gardens he'd seen back in England. He put it together after a long stretch of silent contemplation. "Order."

"Pardon?" Sebastian sent him a quizzical look.

Ciel hadn't meant to say it aloud. He bit his lower lip. "All the vegetation is perfectly pruned and constrained. And laid out in order. There's a perfect… symmetry. And a play with perspective." Ciel motioned at the trees that lined their path. "These trees are shorter than the ones we just passed. See?" He pointed at the trees lining the path. "The trees at the start of the path are taller than the ones in the back."

Sebastian looked down at Ciel. "Well-spotted. And why do you think that is?"

"That's obvious," Ciel said. "It's meant to elongate the path."

Sebastian nodded. "Like makeup, isn't it?" A quick smile, and he started walking again and spoke in his pleasant voice. "These gardens are an example of a _jardin à la francaise_. A garden…. in the French way, I think? Anyway. It is indeed a style of architecture that is based on order and symmetry." Sebastian's smile spread slowly. "A stunning illustration of the victory of man over nature."

"'Orderly' is not the word that comes to my mind if I hear something is _à la francaise._ Nor a victory of any kind."

"Hah. That's quite harsh," Sebastian said. "If I were any more patriotic, I'd be offended."

Ciel slowed his steps, and looked over at Sebastian. He considered if he should ask the question.

But why shouldn't he?

"Are you Parisian?"

"Ah." Sebastian shoved his hands into his pockets, and somehow still managed to look elegant. "What is Parisian anyway? Does it mean someone who was born on her soil? Someone who has joined the millions of restless souls who live here? Or is geographic affiliation optional after all, and is a Parisian someone who breathes... her spirit, perhaps?"

Ciel rolled his eyes. "You know what I'm asking. Answer or don't."

Irritation crackled over Sebastian's face, and Ciel felt a pleasant twinge in his stomach.

His tutor smoothed out his face much too soon. "France is shaped like a star with Paris as its pulsating heart. I'm from one France's northernmost spikes. Brittany. A small fishing village by the sea with a population of only a few hundred souls, including my parents, my twin, and my humble self."

A twin, huh?

_Careful now._

"Humble," Ciel said evenly. "Like a peacock in mating season."

"Heh. You'd be surprised." The man rolled his shoulders. "Anyway. I've lived in Paris for thirteen years now. Some would call me a _parisien d'adoption_ , but, eh." He shrugged. _"Non_. I don't consider myself Parisian. They think that they're at the center of the world, and that everything outside of it is trivial and backwards. Rather narrow-minded, in their own way."

Ciel considered. "You're calling Parisians ignorant. The inhabitants of the most culturally relevant and fiercely intellectual city in the world."

Another languid shrug. "Why, yes. Humans born at the hearth are always so tragically unaware of the origins of the coal that feeds the flames. Don't you think so?"

Ciel snorted. _What a pretentious cock_.

But he was in no mood to argue. 

A fountain emerged behind the bushes to their right. A long body of water stretched out from beneath the feet of a statue in the back.

"And how do you like Paris?" Sebastian asked.

Ciel kept his eyes on the shape of the statue in the distance. "It's fine."

"Careful," Sebastian said. "Last time my grandfather showed this much excitement, he was dead from a heart attack a week later."

Ciel shot him a look that he hoped was sufficiently icy. "My personal positive disposition toward the city might be agreeable, but ultimately of low relevance."

"So you didn't choose to study here out of personal interest," Sebastian said slowly. His dark eyes glinted down at Ciel. "Why, then?"

Ciel kept his face neutral. "It was the right thing to do."

"The right thing?" Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "To come here and live with your relatives? With your parents back in London?"

The skin at the back of Ciel's neck prickled.

"No."

The word fell like a stone between them.

Sebastian's eyes clung to Ciel's face.

Ciel ignored him. Kept walking, focused on the comforting rhythm. Legs moving, soles slapping against the ground. The smell of sweet grass in the air.

The statue finally cut into shape in Ciel's vision.

It wasn't just one statue, he realized. There were three of them: an old man on top of a rock, leaning over and glaring down at a pair of youths curled up beneath, one lying on the lap of the other.

"Ah." Sebastian followed Ciel's gaze. "Polyphemus surprising the young lovers Acis and _Galathée_. The story did not have a good ending, unfortunately for them." He turned to Ciel with a half-smirk on his face. "Do you want to take a rest? Cool down, maybe?"

Ciel looked at the fountain. Memories stirred.

The misty spray of the fountain against his back. Sebastian's long fingers dipping into the crystal veil of the water's surface. His black nail polish gleaming in the light. Trailing across Ciel's vein-webbed wrist. 

And his eyes on Ciel's face. Dark, inquisitive. _Probing._

Ciel looked at the statues. He trailed his eyes up along the bodies of the cowering youths. The horror on their face as they stared up at the face of the man with his crumpled forehead, downturned mouth. Disapproving. Watching. Stern.

Something moved inside Ciel's chest. More images floated up in his mind. A sapphire ring. Watchful auburn eyes. 

His stomach knotted into a twist. 

"Enough." Ciel halted. "I want tea."

Sebastian blinked down at him in surprise. "You -- _pardon?_ "

"I want tea." Ciel scanned the garden for the nearest exit. "Right now."

Several expressions washed over Sebastian's face in quick succession. Dismay. Was that anger? Why? 

Sebastian's face solidified back into aloof nonchalance. "Okay then.. let's go."

Paris was full of cafés and hardly any tea shops. It was lamentable but ultimately unsurprising that they ended up at a café.

Sebastian swore that they had some of the best tea in the sixth arrondissement, and Ciel welcomed the chance to evaluate his competition. They sat down on wicker chairs around a round table set out on the pavement, and Ciel stared at nothingness until the tea arrived.

He stirred it with a spoon, took a sip, judged it as adequate, and went right back to watching the cars and mopeds speed by.

Sebastian was dutifully silent for once. He drank coffee and smoked cigarettes. Glanced over at Ciel every once in a while with a look of such nonchalant confidence that Ciel didn't know what to say.

"Are you having fun?" Sebastian's breath came out grey with smoke.

Ciel looked up to see a small smile on his lips. Honest curiosity shone out of his eyes.

"I'm not bored," Ciel replied, and realised that it was the truth.

Many writers had said that if the city had a sex, it would certainly be female. Was there any truth to this? Was there something inherently feminine about this place?

A well-dressed couple walked by, locked in a tight embrace. His arm around her shoulder, hers across his back. He leaned down to whisper something into her ear. The smile on her face was gracefully coy.

_Sous le ciel de Paris marchent des amoureux… hum hum..._

Ciel gripped his tea cup.

The French were full of contradictions. They scowled one minute and beamed the next. They kissed each other as freely as children and cultivated an air of world-weary aloofness. They were as famed for maudlin romance as their rational disposition toward adultery. 

They lost all their wars, yet walked as if they were all Napoleon.

Sebastian would probably have something to say about it. Ciel could ask him for his opinion right now. It would probably lead to an interesting conversation. Some new information. A new perspective.

But Ciel didn't feel like talking, so he remained silent.

The clear heat of the day waned. An almost corporeal humidity slicked Ciel's shirt to his back. His trousers snapped at his seat when he got up to go to the restroom.

Toilet paper lay strewn around on the tiles. The stench in here made his stomach curl. A curly-haired Frenchman glanced at Ciel curiously from over the pissoir.

Ciel closed his eyes. That stupid _Sous le ciel de Paris_ song was missing a verse about the questionable hygiene standards of its café bathrooms.

Ciel washed his hands after. He was alone. No eyes looked at him but the round, treacherously youthful ones that stared back at him from out of the mirror. 

A rosy flush webbed across his cheekbones. From the heat, probably. And exertion, walking around this dusty, sweaty, smoldering city. And excitement, perhaps?

Ciel listened.

No clocks. Only the trickle of water down the sink. The café chatter from beyond the door. His own heart beat, lodged in his chest, pulsing at his throat. _Ba-dam ba-dam._

Almost as rhythmic as the clocks back at home. Imprecise and whimsical, though. Moved by sentiment and biological jolts. Moved by feeling.

And what time was it?

Did it matter?

The thought startled Ciel. He'd never asked himself this question before.

He stepped back outside. The bright afternoon had sharpened into the rush of early evening. 

The crowd of working adults had thinned out. Groups of students swished past in bubbles of rapid-fire French. Couples with interlocked arms threw adoring glances at each other.

Traffic had picked up. Smoke curled at the back of Ciel's throat and burned his eyes.

And his stomach growled.

"Oh." Sebastian sent down the front of Ciel's shirt. "Right. Time to eat. Shall we leave?"

The surly waiter sidled up to them with the check. Ciel reached for his wallet.

It was eerily natural already, to fall into step next to Sebastian. To let himself be led down a narrow, cobble-stoned alley lined with bistros and florists and glowing red charcuteries. To follow him around a corner and down another narrow side street. 

They passed a music store, and Ciel craned his neck to look at the LPs on offer.

Too much of the bloody Beatles, as usual.

Sebastian's eyes followed his own. "Would you like to go in and take a look?"

Ciel considered. He could go in there and browse, and he could probably stay in there for hours, but -- what good would it do?

He had not brought his record player to Paris for a reason.

Ciel turned toward his tutor. "No. I'm hungry."

"So you said," Sebastian replied mildly. A smile. "All right. Let's get going. To the métro."

"The métro?" Ciel wrinkled his nose. "What for?" 

"To get to where we're going. Which is _Le Bricheton_."

"Never heard of it." Ciel frowned. "How many Michelin stars does it have?"

Sebastian shrugged. "None." The man sounded almost _proud_ of it. "It's not a restaurant."

Ciel bit down on his lower lip to stifle a frustrated groan. "What do you mean?"

"I'm here to show you the city itself, remember?" Sebastian's smile grew. "We will have one of the quintessential Parisian experiences." 

_"Speak,_ Sebastian."

"Ah, so impatient. It's --" Sebastian mimed a drumroll.

Ciel rolled his eyes dramatically.

Sebastian's eyes flickered to a spot behind Ciel's head. Widened. " _Attention_ \--"

Ciel whipped around his head. A horrible stench made his nostrils curl up. Something blocked his way. A chest. Ciel looked up.

A man towered in front of him.

A sharp tug on Ciel's arm. He was pulled backward. A stumbled step, another, backward, and Sebastian was saying something in quick French. Ciel looked from him to the man in front of him, and finally put together what had just happened: he'd nearly collided with this man in front of him, and Sebastian had pulled him out of the way just in time.

Wild eyes shone out above bruised dark shadows. Greasy hair hung down in tatters. The man held himself up by crutches, and empty trousers fluttered in the air beneath his right kneecaps. His clothes were streaked with dirt.

He smelled like the most rank mixture of shit, piss and vomit. 

Ciel's upper lip quivered with disgust.

" _Messieurs."_ The man had the swollen eyelids and the deranged look that fervent Catholics shared with alcoholics. Coins winked at Ciel out of an opened pouch he held in his hands. The man hobbled closer. " _S'il vous pla_ _ît_ _…_ "

"No." Ciel took a hasty step back, and bumped his back against something solid and warm. Sebastian's chest. 

_Oh God_. 

"Get out of my way." Ciel wrinkled his nose at the man. "I'm not giving you money."

Ciel felt Sebastian's hands trail from his elbow up to his shoulders. "Ciel." 

And Ciel wanted to jump forward, but then he'd crash right into the beggar, and he wanted to shrink back, but then he'd only push himself harder against Sebastian.

Sebastian squeezed his arms.

Then he stepped around Ciel and moved forward, shielding Ciel from the beggar. He spoke to the man in fast French.

The man replied, and Ciel understood almost nothing of his frantic ramble. Something about a war, and his leg. His face moved like a cauldron of unsynchronized tics. His milky eyes stared straight at Sebastian.

Ciel swung to the side to dodge the spittle.

Then Sebastian tossed a few coins into the man's opened pouch. Caught Ciel by the arm again. Pulled him to the side and around the man and they were on their way again.

Ciel blinked. Once, twice, three times, and his brain caught up to the situation.

"Why did you give him money?" He jerked his arm out of Sebastian's grasp. "Financially rewarding begging does not solve any problems."

"Right." Sebastian ran a hand through his hair. "Employers are just lining up to hire one-legged men, aren't they?"

"There is work that does not require the use of all limbs. People like that man are still perfectly capable of desk work."

 _"Ouais, d'accord."_ Sebastian rolled his eyes. "That also comes with the added benefit of giving them something to hide under when they hear the bullets whistling through the air."

Ciel felt warm all over. He rubbed his arm where Sebastian had touched it. "That -- that assumption --" Ciel stopped himself. "I'll have you know that my father has made it a point to hire _several_ war veterans, some of whom lost more than just a leg, and integrated them into Funtom Co. as productive members of society."

Sebastian snorted, and looked up at the sky. _"_ _Incroyable ."_

Cold anger settled over Ciel. "I'm not in the mood to continue this discussion. Are we getting dinner or not?"

 _"Incroyable,"_ Sebastian said again, but then chased the disbelief with a sudden gust of laughter, turned, and continued to walk down the alley. 

Ciel watched the man's receding back. "Oi." He grit his teeth. "Wait up."

A quick jog, and Ciel caught up to Sebastian.

Nervous energy settled around them. 

Ciel retreated into his head. The sounds all around him collapsed into a distant drizzle of noise. The people around them retained only their most basic shapes, disintegrated into flecks of black and grey and peach. Simple like the pieces in his childhood toy houses, and just as far away.

Why was his tutor acting all moral like that, anyway? As if he had any clear idea of how the world worked. The man saw only possibilities, never certainties. Ciel had figured that out long ago about him. About this man with the thousand different smiles and the always hard eyes.

Begging was not to be encouraged; it was an obvious and logical truth. It siphoned money away from legitimate economic activity and validated being a rank eyesore. And if that man truly couldn't work, why didn't he find refuge at church? The French were Catholic; weren't they even more obsessed with helping the poor and all of that?

Everything around him swelled into a moist watercolor painting. Ciel followed the black line of Sebastian's back, the blood-red slash of his scarf. Down the street, down a set of stairs. The asphalt clicked against his heels.

Surely it was _their_ problem. The church's. Fantom Co. paid enough money to the propagation of mythical sky fairies not to offload some bloody charity work onto it.

Ciel walked into Sebastian's back.

An undignified yelp escaped his throat. Ciel took a hasty step back, and several impressions crashed into him all at once: masses of people, a corporeal, suffocating heat. Rows of ticket machines that lined the walls on either side.

They were in the métro. 

"Wait here." Sebastian didn't even glance at Ciel. He went over to the ticket machine, and returned a few minutes later. He nodded at the gates.

And still didn't look at Ciel while they walked through them, walked down another set of stairs, and arrived at the platform.

Was the man angry?

 _Let him._ It was better this way, probably. The man did too much looking anyway.

But God, it was foul in here. It smelled of stale food, fresh paint and the sweat-drenched perfume of thousands of Parisians.

"Have you ever used a métro before?" That was Sebastian's skeptical voice from Ciel's side.

Ciel kept his eyes trained on the tracks. "Of course not." 

"Fun," Sebastian said dryly.

The train rattled into the stop and stopped with a hiss. The doors slid open and people thronged around it. A nod from Sebastian, and Ciel followed him. They crossed the gap and stepped into the car.

They were people. All around Ciel. Too fucking many of them.

All the seats were taken. Ciel and Sebastian stood near the doors. The train stuttered, once, twice, and rumbled forward. Minutes passed. 

Ciel didn't look at Sebastian. Sebastian didn't look at Ciel.

The métro stopped at the next station. The doors opened. 

More people filed in. 

Ciel his eyes go out of focus. Armored himself with the spikes of stoic avoidance. Fumbled for the blue room of calm in his mind. 

_Why_ had he agreed to any of this? It had all been a horrible idea. All of it. Going out with his tutor. Spending time with him. Allowing him to take him on this tour. How could Ciel have let himself believe that the man had anything but mischief on his mind?

There were too many people. 

They scarcely _felt_ like people, though. More like were humanoid sources of endless noise and stench and violent distraction. 

Then the train slowed into another stop. The doors shrugged open. An avalanche of people rolled in.

More. And more.

Someone stepped on Ciel's foot. He groaned. Stepped forward, and bumped against something solid, warm and hard, and he glanced up and looked straight into Sebastian's face.

Warm brown eyes looked down at him. Sweat matted his black curls to his forehead. His gaze was sharp. Curious.

Sebastian's cologne filled Ciel's nostrils. Culled his mind into a miasma of dead thought.

Ciel could only stare.

And feel. The heat, the goddamn heat, slipping down his spine, gathering at the small of his back. Pricking the back of his neck. His knees.

Ciel was still pressed up against Sebastian's chest. He couldn't move. There were too many people, he was surrounded by them. They were gurgling dark currents. Only he himself felt still. And Sebastian. A rock.

It wasn't strange. There were just too many people.

Sebastian's hand was on Ciel's arm. A squeeze, and it slipped down to his elbow.

A trickle of sweat crept down Ciel's spine.

He had to say something. Anything. "How much longer?"

"Hmm?"

"For how much longer so I have to endure this?"

Sebastian's smile was sharp at the edges. "Oh, I don't think it will be much longer."

Ciel looked away. Down, down was good. He stared at the dirt-mottled, rattling ground, and waited.

Sebastian's chest felt hot and moist as the breath of a beast.

Only a little more of this. Only a little more.

The train finally arrived at the next stop. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes since they had entered the train, but it had felt like fifty.

The doors slid open, and the barrage of humanity oozed out onto the platform. 

The feeling of the empty space expanding around Ciel felt like nothing short of _relief._

The relief settled in Ciel's chest when he stepped out himself. The sweat cooled immediately, in the crook of his neck and all along his back.

They climbed up toward street level. Ciel took two steps at a time. The July evening soothed his skin. A slow shiver sliced through him.

Sebastian nodded at something behind Ciel.

Ciel turned on his heels and looked up. The Eiffel Tower rose up right in front of him and poked the sky.

Sebastian lit a cigarette and breathed out ringlets of smoke. "And how was your first métro ride?" 

"Tight," Ciel said. "Moist."

"Well, that's...." Sebastian shook his head. Grinned. "Nevermind." He nodded down an alley. "It's down there. Come on."

After the métro ride, walking down the street felt like freedom.

Sebastian stopped in front of a small shop perched in a corner of two avenues. The scent of sweet almonds clung to the air.

 _Le Bricheton,_ it said in large cursive letters.

Ciel blinked. "This is a bakery."

"Yes."

"Are you joking?"

"Far from it." Sebastian finally looked at Ciel again. "We're going to have a picnic by the Eiffel Tower."

Sebastian said it with all the flourish of someone announcing a multi-million dollar profit at an end-of-the-year shareholder meeting.

"A picnic at the Eiffel Tower?" Ciel said doubtfully. "That's your special tour? I've seen it before, you know."

"Yes, along with most other humans in the Western world," Sebastian said easily. "But it's worth it. Trust me on this." 

There wasn't any point in arguing, was there? After surviving the humiliation of the métro ride, a picnic could hardly be any worse. 

And was getting late anyway. Soon their little excursion would be over. 

The scent of sweet almonds clung to the air. Ciel breathed in greedily, and stared at the pastries on display: chocolate breads and cream pastries and brioches and rows of pastel-colored cakes.

Ciel's mouth watered. 

"Hmm," Sebastian said. "We better get some dessert too, then."

Ciel handed over a couple of francs, and they left the bakery.

Next they went to the butcher. Ciel wrinkled his nose at the smell of meat. 

Inanely, Sebastian started talking to a young woman waiting in line with them. She tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear and her smile creased her eyes. 

Did she like him? How annoying. And Sebastian seemed interested, too. That smile on his face. Just a hint of self-satisfied, as if he knew he had her if he wanted her.

Ciel bit down on the inside of his cheek. Sebastian was his guide. He was not here to flirt with random women.

Ciel raised his voice. "What else are we getting?" 

Sebastian's eyes flashed down to Ciel's face. "No French picnic is complete without wine." 

Ciel thought of the crowded métro. The manifold blues of Sebastian's painting. The red of the man's scarf, an ever-present beacon. The heat.

"Wine," said Ciel. "Yes."

They picked some up at a liquor store on the corner.

Back on the main street, Sebastian walked toward the Eiffel Tower. 

A park opened up before them. Groups of people sat around in circles. Multicolored blankets dotted the grass. A stream of conversation settled in Ciel's ear like the low murmur of a creek. 

"Let's sit here." Ciel pointed at a spot on the grass farthest away from anyone else.

Sebastian spread out a blanket, sat down on it cross-legged, and rummaged through his bag. He pulled out the items one by one.

 _"Voilà._ A real Parisian experience." Sebastian handed Ciel some sliced baguette, cheese and meat.

Ciel hadn't expected much, but the crisp taste of the baguette exploded on his tongue. The cheese melted in his mouth. His stomach gave a pleasant jolt, and he ate the first piece, then a second. Sebastian pulled out plastic cups and poured in the wine.

They ate and drank slowly. In silence.

The song stirred in Ciel's mind.

_Sous le pont de Bercy, un philosophe assis..._

By the time Ciel had finished the baguette and a sumptuous cream pastry, grey clouds streaked the bright blue sky.

Ciel threw a glance around.

Most of the people around them were young. Empty bottles lay strewn around the groups like spikes around a fortress.

The sinking sun shafted orange light through the spindly metal legs of the Eiffel Tower.

A group of young people -- students, probably -- with long hair and Tibetan clothing arrived in the park and stretched out on a blanket not far away. A few minutes later, the sound of a guitar filled the air.

Ciel glanced over at the man who was playing. The song pulsed in distant greens and shades of brown.

A sweet, herbal smell filled the air. Ciel wrinkled his nose.

Sebastian's smile was lopsided. "You know what that smell is, right?" 

"Of course," Ciel said stiffly. "My relatives smoke scented cigars all the time."

Sebastian chuckled.

The hot sting of shame pricked Ciel's cheeks. Oh. Oh, _oh._ "Stop laughing."

"Sorry." Amusement still tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Marijuana." Ciel felt the word in his mouth. Turned it over and examined it like a supposedly valuable rock peddled by a street vendor. "I know what it is."

"Clearly only in theory," Sebastian said blithely. "But don't worry. I don't expect you to smoke it."

"Of course not."

Sebastian drained his cup of wine. The fading sunlight softened his features, dulled the ever-present edge in his eyes, polished his skin to a soft shade of gold.

Something shifted in the man's eyes. "I'm curious. Has your view of Paris changed, after today's tour?"

Ciel sipped at his cup of wine. Some tour that had been. They had barely left the bloody arrondissement. It hadn't been like any of the tours Ciel had ever been one, when he'd visited medieval castles and tasted local specialties and committed the dates of deaths and wars and peace treaties to memory. 

The wine churned through his bloodstream, slow and lazy.

"Paris is an interesting city," Ciel said. "It was like I could feel everyone else's opinion, too."

"Hmm." The man looked honestly interested. "Tell me more."

Ciel considered. The curious smell of marijuana tickled his nose. "I've seen this tower before. The Eiffel Tower. In magazines and books and on TV, and I've heard people talk about it. I know its history, of course. Its many names."

Sebastian looked into Ciel's eyes. _"La dame de fer."_

The r sat low in the man's throat. Gravelly. Rocks beneath a spinning wheel.

"Right." Ciel looked away to take another sip of his wine. "That." 

Sebastian smiled. "Have you ever read anything by Carl Jung?"

His aunt had mentioned him once, in passing. The idol of the idle, she'd said. 

Ciel shook his head.

"I'm not surprised by what you're saying." Sebastian settled back on his palms and fanned out his long legs casually. "There is a reason why what all these poets and artists say about Paris is so remarkably similar. Why the same themes run through their words, over and over again." He paused, and nodded at the Eiffel Tower. "Look: her sleek lines, her slender elegance. She's a marvel of engineering, too. And of modernity."

"A speck of calculated order within chaos," Ciel said. "Like the gardens."

"You know what she is. A steeled warrior in a lacey dress. A _ruler. Non?_ And you recognize it, the same way millions have before you, and will after you… humans are born with the ability to recognize universal archetypes."

The sun dropped lower on the sky and shone out from the top of the arch of the legs. Out of the tower's crotch.

"Archetypes?" 

Ciel felt Sebastian's eyes on the side of his face. "Yes. To recognize an archetype is like a stirring of something familiar. It's like a match with an internal blueprint of some constant that exists within you. It's a feeling rather than knowledge. One shared by all. All humans."

And Sebastian had said that before, hadn't he? Something similar.

Ciel turned his head to look at him.

The man's eyes were a soft honey brown in the light.

"How can a feeling be shared by all humans?" Ciel asked.

"Through a common set of ideas which provokes these same feelings." Sebastian's voice was low, suddenly. Soft. "There are several layers to human consciousness. Three, to be exact. There's the conscious -- all your mental processes of which you are aware -- and then there's the personal unconscious. The thoughts, ideas, desires… that exist below the threshold of consciousness."

Ciel took in a deep breath. A series of images fluttered through his mind. The crushing waves on a beach. Youths reclining in the sand. Whorls of endless, intricate blue. Sebastian gazing down at him. Eyes dark and acrid like coffee. Sebastian's chest, right in front of Ciel's face.

Heat pulsed into Ciel's face. He took another sip from his wine. And another, and another, and he drained the whole glass. 

Sebastian passed Ciel the bottle.

Ciel snatched it out of Sebastian's hands. "And? What about the third?"

Sebastian's eyes were strangely serious. Focused. "The conscious and unconscious parts make up the self. And the third layer… that's the collective unconscious. An inherited collection of past human experience. The world of… _intrinsèque_ …?"

"Intrinsic."

 _"Ah oui._ Intrinsic… human fears and longings. This is where the archetypes live. These are patterns that all humans instinctively understand and relate to. Primordial images. Themes that emerge in all cultures across time."

Ciel put down the bottle of wine. The last trickle of wine drooled out of the opened mouth of the bottle.

Empty now. But there was another bottle somewhere, wasn't there? Ah, there it was. On the blanket. Sebastian's legs were casually bent around it. The seam of his trousers ran along the length of his thighs.

Ciel swallowed. "That sounds like metaphysical essentialism. A collection of inherited knowledge? There's no scientific proof for any such thing."

"That's correct. There isn't." Sebastian shrugged, unconcerned. "But it's the most plausible explanation for why the same motifs appear over and over again in human history. Why art transcends culture and language. Why the same stories are told everywhere. Why people believe in the same God -- or Gods -- and give them different names. Why we have the same recurring dreams."

Something aligned within Ciel. A feeling like a key slipping into the grip of a lock, and he said, "Universal constants."

"That's right. It's one of the deepest truths."

Ciel looked into Sebastian's eyes, and held his breath. 

The guitar player segued into another, slower song. 

There was a strange thrill in his chest. A tremble, like a treasure chest with something alive inside that had started to thrash against the lock.

 _Careful,_ a voice told him.

"Of course." Ciel laced his voice with sarcasm. _"Troofs."_

A shadow passed over Sebastian's face. "You mock my accent. Are you deflecting?" Something glinted in his eyes. "How interesting."

Ciel bit down on his tongue. That had been rude of him, hadn't it? "No. Your accent is --" Nice. "It doesn't matter. It's interesting, what you're saying. Is this a free lesson?"

Sebastian's smile briefly morphed into a grin. He soothed it out again. "No. Not a lesson. Simply the… _troof,_ as you say."

"This is your true opinion."

Sebastian said nothing.

But he never stopped looking at Ciel. From across the space between them on the blanket, in the middle of a sea of people in front of the most famous tower in the world.

The lights on the Eiffel Tower turned on. Everyone around them raised their heads to look.

Ciel only briefly glanced at the tower. A metallic wonder with star-studded armor. Sleek, orderly lines. A ruler, yes. Ciel knew it. 

_Felt_ it.

"And you?" Ciel surprised himself with the question. He hadn't felt it coming. "What archetype are you?"

Sebastian's smile simmered into something small. "You already know that, don't you? Or you will soon enough."

Images bubbled up in Ciel's mind. Black smoke that curled inward. Turned into something corporeal. Sharpened into something long and spiky.

Ciel felt the answer. But he didn't quite know it yet.

"Did you really care about that beggar?"

If Sebastian was surprised by the sudden question, he didn't show it. He merely gave one of his elaborate shrugs that moved his entire torso. "In a way."

"Which would be?"

Sebastian's eyes flashed to Ciel's face and darkened. "I like humans. They're the most interesting, wonderfully contradictory, beautifully absurd creatures that exist. I _love_ them, even." The smile on his face was nearly _whimsical._ "I just love them in theory more than in practice."

"You say that a lot, you know. 'Humans.'"

"Hmm, do I?"

A memory came to Ciel. Their ninth birthday party. There had been many gifts, like every year. Uncle Alexis had given them a gypsum ant farm that year. Ciel had soon grown tired of it, but Orion hadn't. He'd spent hours looking at the ways the ants founded a colony and constructed tunneling systems. And once he'd gotten bored of that, he'd starved them, and watched them frantically search for food and eventually give up and hibernate in a desperate attempt to conserve energy before they all died.

Orion had looked like Sebastian did then. Eyes shining with curiosity and detached amusement.

"Do you think _you_ aren't human?"

"Funny you should ask. And funnier that you aren't the first."

"You leave yourself open to this line of questioning."

"I suppose so." Sebastian pulled a pack of cigarettes and lighter out of his bag. He flipped the cigarette between his fingers.

Ciel watched it turn.

"I certainly am." Sebastian sighed thoughtfully. He placed the cigarette between his lips and spoke around it. "Dreadfully so."

"And I suppose you like _yourself_ more in theory than in practice, too."

"Certainly." Sebastian flicked his lighter, and a flame erupted. "I'd make a fine character in a play, don't you think?"

"I see," Ciel said tonelessly. "You think you're special." 

_"Eh bien."_ Sebastian gave another shrug. "Only in one particular way."

Ciel waited. 

The last rays of sunlight fell through the metal net of the tower's legs. 

"You see," Sebastian said. "Humans are masters in self-deception. Their fragile egos depend on moral righteousness. Most of them deceive themselves every single day of their lives. They construct elaborate world views to justify their biases, or to cling to the belief that they fit some arbitrary standard of virtue, and spend their entire lives juggling between truth and therapeutic self-delusion. This is why they hate the most in others what they despise the most in themselves. It's called _projection."_ He said it almost fondly. "Another term coined by Jung. _"_

"You believe you are the exception."

"Hmm. The thing is…" Sebastian exhaled a cloud of smoke. "People _lie._ To others, and to themselves most of all. They lie all the time. About what they want, what they need, what they're really like. And they believe their own lies, and then they become indistinguishable from truth."

"And you don't lie?" 

"That's right," Sebastian said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I don't lie."

Ciel wanted to laugh in the man's face.

He didn't. He'd never seen him look so earnest. His eyes were sincere. There was not a trace of his usual casual mischief on his face. He looked absurdly --

_Innocent._

This man. Innocent. How could that be? 

Something light and wet trickled against Ciel's face. He looked up at the sky. 

The song reverberated dully in a corner of his mind.

_Et le ciel de Paris a son secret pour lui..._

Ciel hadn't even seen the grey clouds come up. He didn't know what time it was. He hadn't thought about the time in hours.

The wine was a slow churn in his blood.

The herbal smell was gone now. The guitar had fallen silent. A crescendo of conversation swirled around him as people got up to pack their things and make plans. Umbrellas mushroomed up around him. The Iron Lady stood tall and watched them all.

Ciel's eyes fell back on Sebastian.

The man licked the corner of his lips -- quickly, almost imperceptibly -- and he asked: "And you? What do you want?" 

Ciel thought about it.

Sebastian took a drag on his cigarette. The fire at the tip of his cigarette pulsed.

"I want…" Ciel trailed off. Listened deep within him. 

Only a second, and the answer came to him. "I want a drink."

Sebastian chuckled softly.

A plume of smoke rose up in front of his face, cut through by a sharp smirk, and he said, "I know just the place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting!! I truly treasure every comment so much. I hope you liked this chapter! I couldn't resist plugging my homeboy Carl Jung in here. 
> 
> No preview this time! This and the next chapter are one chapter in my outline, but it made sense to split them up here. You can probably guess what sort of things the next update might entail ;) All I'll say is: next chapter we'll... make a bit of progress here. And the end of innocence is fast approaching...
> 
> I'll be a bit more conservative with my upload schedule from now on. I'm aiming for a new chapter on **Sunday, January 31st.** Any changes to my plans will be announced on [my tumblr](https://sinnergism.tumblr.com/) as usual. I'm super excited about this next chapter, ahhh!!
> 
> ...But how did you like _this_ chapter? 
> 
> See you soon!! And happy new year!


End file.
